Indiana [sonnet] by James Whitcomb Riley

Our Land– our Home– the common home indeed
Of soil-born children and adopted ones–
The stately daughters and the stalwart sons
Of Industry–: All greeting and godspeed!
O home to proudly live for, and if need
Be proudly die for, with the roar of guns
Blent with our latest prayer–. So died men once…
Lo Peace…! As we look on the land They freed–
Its harvests all in ocean-over flow
Poured round autumnal coasts in billowy gold–
Its corn and wine and balmed fruits and flow’rs–,
We know the exaltation that they know
Who now, steadfast inheritors, behold
The Land Elysian, marvelling “This is ours?”

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