THE baby moon, a canoe, a silver papoose canoe, sails and sails in the Indian west. A ring of silver foxes, a mist of silver foxes, sit and sit around the Indian moon. One yellow star for a runner, and rows of blue stars for more runners, keep a line of watchers. O foxes, baby moon, runners, you are the panel of memory, fire-white writing to-night of the Red Man's dreams. Who squats, legs crossed and arms folded, matching its look against the moon-face, the star-faces, of the West? Who are the Mississippi Valley ghosts, of copper foreheads, riding wiry ponies in the night? -- no bridles, love-arms on the pony necks, riding in the night a long old trail? Why do they always come back when the silver foxes sit around the early moon, a silver papoose, in the Indian west? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...RABBI BEN EZRA by ROBERT BROWNING THE BUNCH OF GRAPES by GEORGE HERBERT TO HIS DYING BROTHER, MASTER WILLIAM HERRICK by ROBERT HERRICK THE INVITATION (TO TOM HUGHES) by CHARLES KINGSLEY PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 94. AL-HADI by EDWIN ARNOLD THE ELDER WOMAN'S SONG: 3, FR. KING LEAR'S WIFE by GORDON BOTTOMLEY |