Hush thee and sleep, little one, 
    The feathers on thy board sway to and fro; 
The shadows reach far downward in the water 
     The great old owl is waking, day will go. 
 
Rest thee and fear not, little one, 
     Flitting fireflies come to light you on your way 
To the fair land of dreams, while in the grasses 
     The happy cricket chirps his merry lay. 
 
Tsa-du-meh watches always o’er her little one, 
     The great owl cannot harm you, slumber on
‘Till the pale light comes shooting from the eastward, 
     And the twitter of the birds says night has gone. 

^{translated from the Anishinaabemowin}

Here in my native inland sea
From pain and sickness would I flee
And from its shores and island bright
Gather a store of sweet delight.
Lone island of the saltless sea!
How wide, how sweet, how fresh and free
How all transporting—is the view
Of rocks and skies and waters blue
Uniting, as a song’s sweet strains
To tell, here nature only reigns.
Ah, nature! here forever sway
Far from the haunts of men away
For here, there are no sordid fears,
No crimes, no misery, no tears
No pride of wealth; the heart to fill,
No laws to treat my people ill.

Sleep, my little man-child, 

Dream-time to you has come. 



In the closely matted branches

Of the mesquite tree, 

The mother-bird has nestled 

Her little ones; see 

From the ghost-hills of your fathers, 

Purpling shadows eastward crawl, 

While beyond the western sky-tints pale 

As twilight spreads its pall. 



The eastern hills are lighted, 

See their sharp peaks burn and glow, 

With the colors the Great Sky-Chief 

Gave your father for his bow. 

Hush my man-child; be not frighted, 

‘Tis the father’s step draws nigh. 

O’er the trail along the river, 

Where the arrow-weeds reach high 

Above his dark head, see 

He parts them with his strong hands, 

As he steps forth into view. 

He is coming home to mother, 

Home to mother and to you. 

 

Sleep my little man-child, 

Daylight has gone. 

There’s no twitter in the branches, 

Dream-time has come. 

Come roam the wild hills, my Cherokee Rose, 

Come roam the wild hills with me. 

We’ll follow the path where the Spavinaw flows, 

Dashing wild on its way to the sea, 

On its wearisome way to the sea. 

We’ll chase the fleet deer from its lair in the woods;

We’ll follow the wolf to his den. 

When the sun hides his face, we’ll rest in the woods;

Hid away from the worry of men. 

Hid away from the bother of men. 

And then we’ll go home, my Cherokee Rose,

Where the Senecas live in the heart of the hills

By the rippling Cowskin, where the Saulchana grows, 

We’ll go home to the Coyauga hills, 

To the sheltering Coyauga hills. 

Now let no charitable hope
Confuse my mind with images
Of eagle and of antelope:
I am by nature none of these.

I was, being human, born alone;
I am, being woman, hard beset;
I live by squeezing from a stone
The little nourishment I get.

In masks outrageous and austere
The years go by in single file;
But none has merited my fear,
And none has quite escaped my smile.

There will be rose and rhododendron
   When you are dead and under ground;
Still will be heard from white syringas
   Heavy with bees, a sunny sound;

Still will the tamaracks be raining
   After the rain has ceased, and still
Will there be robins in the stubble,
   Brown sheep upon the warm green hill.

Spring will not ail nor autumn falter;
   Nothing will know that you are gone,
Saving alone some sullen plough-land
   None but yourself sets foot upon;

Saving the may-weed and the pig-weed
   Nothing will know that you are dead,—
These, and perhaps a useless wagon
   Standing beside some tumbled shed.

Oh, there will pass with your great passing
   Little of beauty not your own,—
Only the light from common water,
   Only the grace from simple stone!

And if my heart be scarred and burned, 
The safer, I, for all I learned; 
The calmer, I, to see it true 
That ways of love are never new— 
The love that sets you daft and dazed 
Is every love that ever blazed; 
The happier, I, to fathom this: 
A kiss is every other kiss. 
The reckless vow, the lovely name, 
When Helen walked, were spoke the same; 
The weighted breast, the grinding woe, 
When Phaon fled, were ever so. 
Oh, it is sure as it is sad 
That any lad is every lad, 
And what’s a girl, to dare implore 
Her dear be hers forevermore? 
Though he be tried and he be bold, 
And swearing death should he be cold, 
He’ll run the path the others went.…
But you, my sweet, are different.

These wet rocks where the tide has been,
   Barnacled white and weeded brown
And slimed beneath to a beautiful green,
   These wet rocks where the tide went down
Will show again when the tide is high
   Faint and perilous, far from shore,
No place to dream, but a place to die,—
   The bottom of the sea once more.
There was a child that wandered through
   A giant’s empty house all day,—
House full of wonderful things and new,
   But no fit place for a child to play.

We shall have our little day.
Take my hand and travel still
Round and round the little way,
Up and down the little hill.

It is good to love again;
Scan the renovated skies,
Dip and drive the idling pen,
Sweetly tint the paling lies.

Trace the dripping, piercèd heart,
Speak the fair, insistent verse,
Vow to God, and slip apart,
Little better, little worse.

Would we need not know before
How shall end this prettiness;
One of us must love the more,
One of us shall love the less.

Thus it is, and so it goes;
We shall have our day, my dear.
Where, unwilling, dies the rose
Buds the new, another year.

Never, never may the fruit be plucked from the bough
And gathered into barrels.
He that would eat of love must eat it where it hangs.
Though the branches bend like reeds,
Though the ripe fruit splash in the grass or wrinkle on the tree,
He that would eat of love may bear away with him
Only what his belly can hold,
Nothing in the apron,
Nothing in the pockets.
Never, never may the fruit be gathered from the bough
And harvested in barrels.
The winter of love is a cellar of empty bins,
In an orchard soft with rot.