"No, not so lonely now -- I love A forest maiden; she is mine And on Sierra's slopes of pine, The vines below, the snows above, A solitary lodge is set Within a fringe of water'd firs; And there my wigwam fires burn, Fed by a round brown patient hand, That small brown faithful hand of hers That never rests till my return. The yellow smoke is rising yet; Tiptoe, and see it where you stand Lift like a column from the land. "There are no sea-gems in her hair, No jewels fret her dimpled hands, And half her bronzen limbs are bare. Her round brown arms have golden bands, Broad, rich, and by her cunning hands Cut from the yellow virgin ore, And she does not desire more. I wear the beaded wampum belt That she has wove -- the sable pelt That she has fringed red threads around; And in the morn, when men are not, I wake the valley with the shot That brings the brown deer to the ground. And she beside the lodge at noon Sings with the wind, while baby swings In sea-shell cradle by the bough -- Sings low, so like the clover sings With swarm of bees; I hear her now, I see her sad face through the moon. . . . Such songs! -- would earth had more of such! She has not much to say, and she Lifts never voice to question me In aught I do. . . and that is much. I love her for her patient trust, And my love's forty-fold return -- A value I have not to learn As you. . . at least, as many must. . . . . . "She is not over tall or fair; Her breasts are curtained by her hair, And sometimes, through the silken fringe, I see her bosom's wealth, like wine Burst through in luscious ruddy tinge -- And all its wealth and worth are mine. I know not that one drop of blood Of prince or chief is in her veins: I simply say that she is good, And loves me with pure womanhood. . . . When that is said, why, what remains?" |