I wish I hailed from mountains tall,
Their shadow so great that I felt small,
I'd climb o'er the rock and breathe the thin air,
Their milky white peaks as arms stretched in prayer.

I wish I hailed from forests deep,
Where foxes lurk and fairies sleep,
The white-speckled shroom would be my dear friend,
And that green-wooded trail, ne'er would it end.

Yet I was not born where the mountain winds blow,
Nor up from the damp forest floor did I grow,
My homeland is open, sprawling and wide,
With no hills to crest, 
Nor places to hide.

But if you look closely, and your eyes were made keen,
You will spy its beauty somewhere in-between.
In the change of the seasons,
Or the lilt of the breeze, 
Or as goldenrod sheds her warm glow o’er the trees.

In the loneliest hours between evening and night, 
When the mourning dove sings under harvest moon’s light,
You will see its true beauty as the crops grow and die,
For the prairie is honest, and cannot tell a lie.