SÉANCE AT SUNRISE

Place the new hands
In the old hands
Of the old generation,
And let us tilt tables
In the high room
Of our imagination.

Let the thick veil glow thin,
At sunrise--at sunrise--
Let the strange eyes peer in,
The red, the black, and the white faces
Of the still living dead
Of the three races.

Let a quaint voice begin:

_Voice of an Indian_
"Gone from the land,
We leave the music of our names,
As pleasant as the sound of waters;
Gone is the log-lodge and the skin tepee,
And moons ago the ghost-canoe brought home
The latest of our sons and daughters--
Yet still we linger in tobacco smoke
And in the rustling fields of maize;
Faint are the tracks our moccasins have left,
But they are there, down all your ways."