My song will rest while I rest. I struggle along. I’ll get back to the corn and
the open fields. Don’t fret, love, I’ll come out all right.
Back of Chicago the open fields. Were you ever there—trains coming toward
you out of the West—streaks of light on the long gray plains? Many a
song—aching to sing.
I’ve got a gray and ragged brother in my breast—that’s a fact. Back of
Chicago the open fields—long trains go west too—in the silence. Don’t
fret, love. I’ll come out all right.
