Witter Bynner

1881-1968 / United States

Ghosts of Indians

Indian-footed move the mists
From the corner of the lake,
Silent, sinuous and bent;
And their trailing feathers shake,
Tremble to forgotten leapings,
While with lingerings and creepings
Down they lean again to slake
The dead thirst of parching mouths,
Lean their pale mouths in the lake.

Indian-footed move the mists
That were hiding in the pine,
Out upon the oval lake
In a bent and ghostly line
Lean and drink for better sleeping ...
Then they turn again and- creeping,
Gliding as with fur and fins-
Disappear through woods and water
On a thousand moccasins.
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