Indian Pipes
THE pipes of peace! Erect and white
In this dark, piney place where light
May enter seldom,—thus they grow
Up from the mold and mosses low,
Like ghostly shadows of the night.
This was the spot,—I know it well.
Here died the chief, so legends tell:
From out the shade a traitor dart
Sped to its mark in that brave heart;
I found an arrow where he fell.
And deep below the moss and mold
They say his bones lie stark and cold;
Yet never dared men seek him here,—
It is so still, so dark, so drear,
The pines so lone, his grave so old.
O pipes of peace, why do ye spring
From this red soil, from that dread Thing?
Could peace for his fierce ashes wait?
A life of war, a death of hate,—
What did that fateful arrow bring?
In Happy Hunting Grounds is he
Atone with every enemy?
There doth he puff the peace-pipe slow?—
Methinks pale smoke-wreaths curl to me.
poem by Abbie Farwell Brown from The New England Magazine / Volume 22, Issue 6 (1897)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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