Here you will find the Poem American Gothic of poet William Stafford
If we see better through tiny, grim glasses, we like to wear tiny, grim glasses. Our parents willed us this view. It's tundra? We love it. We travel our kind of Renaissance: barnfuls of hay, whole voyages of corn, and a book that flickers its halo in the parlor. Poverty plus confidence equals pioneers. We never doubted.
