Meadows and streams The morn sun kissed, Night has enveloped In shadowy mist. With neither time Nor space to reckon, Ghostly figures Seem to beckon. Like smouldering campfires Long since dead, The graying mist Circles overhead Phantom shadows Their vigil keep Over the land Of bittersweet. 'Tis years since the Red men roamed, at will, The golden meadow And wooded hill. Yet, through the fog, I seem to discern A chieftain's face, Noble and stern. With eyes that search My very soul, He seems to question The white man's goal. Softly, a zephyr Whispers "Hush! Answer him not, For fear you blush." Chained to a life Of daily stress, Is this the thing Men call success? To justify The demon greed, In virtue, give him The garb of need. Ah, mystic eyes That pierce the night, I wonder not You question the right Of such as these, Who would replace Honor, over a Primitive race. As though a part Of some weird dream, A birch canoe Glides down the stream. The waters rippling Back to shore, Whisper their echoes, Of "never more!" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DILIGENCE IS TO MAGIC AS PROGRESS IS TO FLIGHT by MARIANNE MOORE UPON DRINKING IN A BOWL by ANACREON THE CONFESSIONAL by ROBERT BROWNING PASSING AWAY by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI ANACREON by ANTIPATER OF SIDON TO MR. BARBAULD, NOVEMBER 14, 1778 by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD THE AFFECTIONATE SHEPHERD; OR COMPLAINT OF DAPHNIS by RICHARD BARNFIELD |