Hard by the Indian lodges, where the bush
Breaks in a clearing, through ill fashioned fields,
She comes to labor, when the first still hush
Of autumn follows large and recent yields.
Age in her fingers, hunger in her face,
Her shoulders stooped with weight of work and years,
But rich in tawny coloring of her race,
She comes a-field to strip the purple ears.
And all her thoughts are with days gone by,
Ere might's injustice banished from their lands
Her people, that to-day unheeded lie,
Like the dead husks that rustle through her hands,
-Tekahionwake
From Flint and Feather. The Complete poems of E. Pauline Johnson.
(Tekahionwake)
This poem is in the public domain.
