HARD by the Indian lodges, where the bush Breaks in a clearing, through ill-fashioned fields, She comes to labour, when the first still hush Of autumn follows large and recent yields. Age in her fingers, hunger in her face, Her shoulders stooped with weight of work and years, But rich in tawny colouring of her race, She comes a-field to strip the purple ears. And all her thoughts are with the days gone by, Ere might's injustice banished from their lands Her people, that to-day unheeded lie, Like the dead husks that rustle through her hands. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WHEN THE SPEED COMES by ROBERT FROST OMNIPRESENCE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON SEPULCHRE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON DOMESDAY BOOK: JOHN SCOFIELD by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE SPARROW HARK IN THE RAIN (ALEXANDER STEPHENS HEARS NEWS) by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |