She comes and sits beside my door; An Indian woman, old and gray, And as I feed her broken bread We talk before she goes her way. She smiles and shows me from her pack The gleanings of her wandering day, Old coats, old shoes or anything That white folks gladly give away. She sits awhile and weaves a bit Upon a basket made to sell, And as I stand to watch her work A bit of gossip tries to tell. I hardly understand her words, Few thoughts can we exchange or tell, But as she lifts her pack again We smile and wish each other well. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: REV. LEMUEL WILEY by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE RIDE-BY-NIGHTS by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 19. SILENT NOON by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI ENGLAND IN 1819 by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY ELEGIAC STANZAS SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEELE CASTLE, IN A STORM by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE FOOL'S ADVENTURE by LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE CARELESS LINES ON LABOUR by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS |