AS some poor Indian woman A captive child receives, And warms it in her bosom, And o'er its weeping grieves; And comforts it with kisses, And strives to understand Its eager, lonely babble, Fondling the little hand, -- So Earth, our foster-mother, Yearns for us, with her great Wild heart, and croons in murmurs Low, inarticulate. She knows we are white captives, Her dusky race above, But the deep, childless bosom Throbs with its brooding love. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES by FRANCIS BRET HARTE THE ENKINDLED SPRING by DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE THE SEARCH (1) by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL CHILD OF THE ROMANS by CARL SANDBURG BROWNING'S GARDEN AT CAMBERWELL by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON SYMBOL OF OUR COUNTRY by MAUD MCKINSEY BUTLER |