The Feast of the Virgins and Other Poems by Hanford Lennox Gordon
page 20 of 448 (04%)
page 20 of 448 (04%)
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Wiwâstè sat late in the lodge alone, Her dark eyes bent on the glowing fire: She heard not the wild winds shrill and moan; She heard not the tall elms toss and groan; Her face was lit like the harvest moon; For her thoughts flew far to her heart's desire. Far away in the land of the _Hóhè_[15] dwelt The warrior she held in her secret heart; But little he dreamed of the pain she felt, For she hid her love with a maiden's art. Not a tear she shed, not a word she said, When the brave young chief from the lodge departed; But she sat on the mound when the day was dead, And gazed at the full moon mellow-hearted. Fair was the chief as the morning-star; His eyes were mild and his words were low, But his heart was stouter than lance or bow; And her young heart flew to her love afar O'er his trail long covered with drifted snow. She heard a warrior's stealthy tread, And the tall Wakâwa appeared, and said: "Is Wiwâstè afraid of the spirit dread That fires the sky in the fatal north?[26] Behold the mysterious lights. Come forth: Some evil threatens, some danger nears, For the skies are pierced by the burning spears." The warriors rally beneath the moon; They shoot their shafts at the evil spirit. |
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