Discarded flakes of gleaming amber flint From distant quarries where the red men toiled, Can these be arrow heads the maker spoiled, Or merely chips that bear his hammer-print? How patiently he must have worked away To ruin twenty points in making one, This wrinkled artist, squatting in the sun, Who left them lying here that autumn day. My songs are like these broken stones, I see The arrow-man each day, for I am he! |