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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.
(To the South Wind)
O Wind, hast thou a sigh
Robbed from her lips divine
Upon this sunbright day—
A token or a sign?
Oh, take me, Wind, into
Thy confidence, and tell
Me, whispering soft and low,
The secrets of the dell.
Oh, teach me what it is
The meadow flowers say
As to and fro they nod
Thro’ all the golden day.
Oh, hear, Wind of the South,
And whispering softer yet,
Unfold the story of
The lone pine tree’s regret.
A winged bit of Indian sky
Strayed hither from its home on high.
Far, far, far are my silver waters drawn;
The hills embrace me loth to let me go;
The maidens think me fair to look upon,
And trees lean over glad to hear me flow.
Thro’ field and valley, green because of me,
I wander, wander to the distant sea.