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That drove her to my arms in playful fright:
The rounded warmth of her, the yielding flesh,
The moist vermilion of her mouth that brushed
By chance against my cheek—oh! it would test
The iron in the will of any man
To hold secure its chill integrity
Against the surging fire of Rattling-Claw;
Either it yielded, molten, soon or late,
Or else was purified to tempered steel. . . .

In Goat-haunt Range, old Rattling-Claw, alone,
Flings out the line of traps, draws up alone
Her buckets at the spring, and sets the roast
Of venison before her palsied sire;
In Goat-haunt isolation, Rattling-Claw,
Wasted by years, by hungers unfulfilled,
Companioned by a hound on whom she rains
Her ardor, lets fall her virtues one by one
To earth like petals withered—a lily, parched
In the Moon-of-Turning-Colors-in-the-Leaves,
Raspy of blade, forlornly wilted, waiting,
Waiting for pollen-bearing winds to come
From out a far low country, a venturing moth,
A roving bee, a bird, a butterfly.