Fathers with eyes of ancient ire, Old eagles shorn of flight, Forget the breed of my blue-eyed sire While I sit this hour by the council fire, All red in the fire's red light. Chant me the day of the war-steed's prance And the signal fires on the buttes, Of the Cheyenne scalps on the lifted lance, Of the women raped from the Pawnee dance And the wild death trail of the Utes. Sing me the song of the buffalo run To the edge of the canyon snare, With the roaring plunge when the meat was won And the flash of knives in the low red sun And the good blood smell in the air. Chant me the might of the Manitou— But the old song drags and dies. Old things have drifted the sunset through Till the very God of the land comes new From the rim where the young stars rise! Fathers, red men, the red flame falls, And over the dim dawn lands My white soul hunts me again and calls To the lanes of law and the shadow of walls And a woman with soft white hands. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONSECRATED GROUND; READ AT THE NEW YORK CITY HALL by EDWIN MARKHAM FOREFATHERS by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN THE CALM [CALME] by JOHN DONNE MEMORY by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR THE PLAYERS by FRANCIS LAWRENCE BICKLEY THE STUDY by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN THE WIVES OF WEINSBERG by GOTTFRIED AUGUST BURGER THE CARDINAL FLOWER by JOHN BURROUGHS TOWARDS DEMOCRACY: PART 3. CHRISTMAS EVE by EDWARD CARPENTER |