IN A MUSEUM by ELEANOR G. R. YOUNG

This is a curious place:
All these strange objects
Seem to speak to me
In shy, peculiar ways.
Behind the crude lines
Of that Inca vase
I seem to see dark, patient forms
Working with tireless care
In a determined effort
To express
The surging beauty
Hidden in their hearts.

Before those yards of
Soft, cobwebby lace
I stand and dream
Of little fingers patiently at work
On intricate designs,
And those bright baskets
In that roomy case
Were made by Indians:
How could they know
The way to blend their colors?
All untaught,
They must have borrowed
Those arresting tones
From orange sunsets
From flamingos' wings,
From the lush grasses
Of their marshy swamps.
Before those beaded moccasins were made
A grave squaw doubtless dreamed
For many hours
Seated before her wigwam
While the moon
Washed the great valley
With its silver light.

Back of all this——
These things that typify
The efforts of each race
And age and clime——
Winds the unbroken thread
Of golden dreams!

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