| |
| SHE is free of the trap and the paddle, | |
| The portage and the trail, | |
| But something behind her savage life | |
| Shines like a fragile veil. | |
| |
| Her dreams are undiscovered, | 5 |
| Shadows trouble her breast, | |
| When the time for resting cometh | |
| Then least is she at rest. | |
| |
| Oft in the morns of winter | |
| When she visits the rabbit snares, | 10 |
| An appearance floats in the crystal air | |
| Beyond the balsam firs. | |
| |
| Oft in the summer mornings | |
| When she strips the nets of fish, | |
| The smell of the dripping net-twine | 15 |
| Gives to her heart a wish. | |
| |
| But she cannot learn the meaning | |
| Of the shadows in her soul, | |
| The lights that break and gather, | |
| The clouds that part and roll. | 20 |
| |
| The reek of rock-built cities, | |
| Where her fathers dwelt of yore, | |
| The gleam of loch and shealing, | |
| The mist on the moor, | |
| |
| Frail traces of kindred kindness, | 25 |
| Of feud by hill and strand, | |
| The heritage of an age-long life | |
| In a legendary land. | |
| |
| She wakes in the stifling wigwam, | |
| Where the air is heavy and wild, | 30 |
| She fears for something or nothing | |
| With the heart of a frightened child. | |
| |
| She sees the stars turn slowly | |
| Past the tangle of the poles, | |
| Through the smoke of the dying embers, | 35 |
| Like the eyes of dead souls. | |
| |
| Her heart is shaken with longing | |
| For the strange still years, | |
| For what she knows and knows not, | |
| For the wells of ancient tears. | 40 |
| |
| A voice calls from the rapids, | |
| Deep, careless, and free, | |
| A voice that is larger than her life | |
| Or than her death shall be. | |
| |
| She covers her face with her blanket, | 45 |
| Her fierce soul hates her breath, | |
| As it cries with a sudden passion | |
| For life or death. | |
| |
