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PRAIRIE SONGS
Weaving in misty, crystal shrouds,
Then floating back to earth again
To drift across the frozen plain
In strangely sculptured trough and crest,
Like some slow ocean's heaving breast.
Such night is not for mortal kind To fare abroad; the bitter wind, The restless snows, the frost-locked mold Bid living creatures seek their hold And leave to Winter's monarch will The solitudes of vale and hill. The buffalo, whose legions vast A few short moons ago have passed Adown these bleak hillsides, Now graze full many a league away Where, through the genial southern day The winds of Matagorda Bay Caress their shaggy hides. The wolves have sought their coverts deep In dark ravine and coulee steep, Where cedar thickets, dense and warm, Afford protection from the storm, And every creature of the plains Has left his well-beloved domains To seek, or near or far, A haven where warm-blooded life May cower from the dreadful strife Of hyperborean war.
But see, across yon barren swell
Where wind and snow-rime weave a spell
Of phantoms o'er the hill.
What awkward creatures of the night
Come creeping, snail-like, on the sight,
Halting and slow, in weary plight
But ever onward still?
Their limbs are long and lank and thin,
Their forms are swathed from foot to chin
In garments rude of bison skin. |
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