White Butterfly, my warrior son is dead! The Crows have pierced him with their cruel spears, And I his mother through the village mourn. My flesh is cut, my blood flows with my tears, And all my hair have I in anguish shorn. White Butterfly, my son, my son, is dead! Fierce in his war-paint, proudly on his horse, How often home in safety he has turned, With captured ponies and with battles won. Now come the young men back with honors earned, But not their Leader, not my warrior son. "White Butterfly will come no more," they said, And I am weeping in the triumph-hour. White Butterfly, my son, my son, they said. Mourn with me, O my Tribe, for he is dead! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EVENING CLOUDS by FRANCIS LEDWIDGE THE YELLOW BADGE by RUTH SCHECHTER ALEXANDER SONNET: MAN VERSUS ASCETIC. 4 by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON THE MEADOW STREAM by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN SLEEP NOT, DREAM NOT by EMILY JANE BRONTE A WEST-COUNTRY LOVER by ALICE BROWN THE DHOON by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN |