A few days more, and then
There’ll be no secret glen,
Or hollow, deep and dim,
To hide or shelter him.

And on the prairie far,
Beneath the beacon star
On evening’s dark’ning shore,
I’ll hear him nevermore.

For where the tepee smoke
Curled up of yore, the stroke
Of hammers rings all day,
And grim Doom shouts, “Make way!”

The immemorial hush
Is broken by the rush
Of armed enemies
Unto the utmost seas.

This poem is in the public domain.