And faces, forms and phantoms, numbered not, Gather and pass like mist upon the breeze, Jading the eye with uncouth images: Women with muskets, children dropping shot By fields half harvested or left in fear Of Indian inroad, or the Hessian near; Disaster, poverty, and dire disease. Or from the burning village, through the trees I see the smoke in reddening volumes roll, The Indian file in shadowy silence pass While the last man sets up the trampled grass, The Tory priest declaiming, fierce and fat, The Shay's man with the green branch in his hat, Or silent sagamore, Shaug or Wassahoale. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SURFACES AND MASKS; 6 by CLARENCE MAJOR JOHNNY APPLESEED by EDGAR LEE MASTERS BUCOLIC COMEDY: SPINNING SONG by EDITH SITWELL THE FOUNTAIN (2) by SARA TEASDALE DAYBREAK by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS |