Here you will find the Poem The Ingrate of poet John Crowe Ransom
By night we looked across my field, The tasseled corn was fine to see, The moon was yellow on the rows And seemed so wonderful to me, That with an old provincial pride I praised my moonlit Tennessee, And thought my poor befriended man Would never dare to disagree. He was a frosty Russian man And wore a bushy Russian beard; He had two furtive faded eyes That some old horror once had seared; I wondered if they ever would Forget the horrors they had feared; Yet when I praised my pleasant field This stupid fellow almost jeered. 'Your moon shines very well, my friend, Your fields are good enough, I know; At home our fields in the winter-time Were always white, and shining so! Our nights went beautiful like day, And bitter cold our winds would blow; And I remember how it looked, Dear God, my country of the snow!'
