Ai, ai, my small red man, Why do you weep on my bosom, Here in the Hut of the Newborn, Fresh from the beak of the Raven, He who made earth from the rain clouds, He who made Queen Charlotte Islands, He who made men from the clam mounds? Long did you lie in a hammock Swung near the Hanging Horizons, Trailing your feathers of swansdown Blown through the masks of Divine Ones, Hearing the Whistlers, the spirits, Pierce the dense blueness of Starland; Lost, until my heart called to you, Lost until my body bore you. Wah, ah wah, my small red man, Welcome, the journey is ended! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO JOHN BROWN by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE DAY OF THE DEAD SOLDIERS; MARY 30, 1869 by EMMA LAZARUS THE STORM by KATHERINE MANSFIELD CONSECRATED GROUND; READ AT THE NEW YORK CITY HALL by EDWIN MARKHAM DOMESDAY BOOK: IRMA LEESE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: REV. LEMUEL WILEY by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |