I knew a bullnecked man in Kansas, born
of woman, plowman, fellow man, he turned
into a swan. The dust and yellow corn
of Kansas in the sun, the same sun burned
the windblown soul of him. The man is dead,
he laid his broken body down. The swan
of him, the Kansas sun and sky have shed
their weight of him in gold. The dead live on
in Kansas, risen now the dust, the plow
that raised a man to be a swan, that reared
an ocean up of Kansas corn and cow
has sworn in me, the voice I have heard,
the promise Kansas made, I still can hear,
the voice, his voice, the promise I remember.