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...ETUDES DE PLUSIERS PAYSAGES DE L' AME: 1 by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE CROSS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON O GLORIOUS FRANCE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: BARNEY HAINSFEATHER by EDGAR LEE MASTERS BUCOLIC COMEDY: KING COPHETUA AND THE BEGGAR MAID by EDITH SITWELL |