- And my tears, too, have stained this heirloomed ground,
When reading in these treatises some weird
Miracle, I turned a leaf and found
A white hair fallen from my father's beard.
Indian Reservation: Caughnawaga (1983)Edit
- Where are the braves, the faces like autumn fruit,
who stared at the child from the coloured frontispiece?
- This is a grassy ghetto, and no home.
- For the tourist's
brown pennies scattered at the old church door,
the ragged papooses jump, and bite the dust.
- The animals pale, the shine of the fur is lost,
bleached are their living bones.
About them watch
as through a mist, the pious prosperous ghosts.