Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/157

This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.
THE BOX OF GOD
BROKEN BIRD
O broken bird,Whose whistling silver wings have known the liftOf high mysterious hands, and the wild sweet musicOf big winds among the ultimate stars!—The black-robed curés put your pagan IndianSoul in their white man's House of God, to layUpon your pagan lips new songs, to swellThe chorus of amens and hallelujahs.In simple faith and holy zeal, they flungAside the altar-tapestries, that youMight know the splendor of God's handiwork,The shining glory of His face. O eagle,They brought you to a four-square box of God,Crippled of pinion, clipped of soaring wing;And they left you there to flutter against the barsIn futile flying, to beat against the gates,To droop, to dream a little, and to die.
Ah, Joe Shing-ób—by the sagamores reveredAs Spruce the Conjurer, by the black-priests dubbedThe Pagan Joe—how clearly I recallYour conversion in the long-blade's House of God,Your wonder when you faced its golden glories.Don't you remember?—when first you sledged from outThe frozen Valley of the Sleepy-eye,And hammered on the gates of Fort Brazeau—To sing farewell to Ah-nah-qúod, the Cloud,Sleeping, banked high with flowers, clothed in the pompOf white man's borrowed garments in the church?Oh, how your heart, as a child's heart beating beforeHigh wonder-workings, thrilled at the burial splendor!—The coffin, shimmering-black as moonlit ice,

142

This article is issued from Wikisource. The text is available under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 unless otherwise noted. Additional terms may apply for the media files.