STILL-DAYA Medicine-man
Mystic he was, more deep and passionless
Than a stagnant pond beneath a film of weeds;
But when the clouds went combering up the sky,
And Thunder-spirits, rumbling in the dusk,
Flickered their tongues of lightning ghastly green,
His withered lips would ripple with a prayer,
Like water-reeds before a gasp of wind.
Than a stagnant pond beneath a film of weeds;
But when the clouds went combering up the sky,
And Thunder-spirits, rumbling in the dusk,
Flickered their tongues of lightning ghastly green,
His withered lips would ripple with a prayer,
Like water-reeds before a gasp of wind.
Socketed deep among his bold bronzed features,
Worn dull from long communing with the ghosts
Of fish, of snakes, of moaning dead, his eyes
Held never a hint of evil; save in winter,
When bleak Kee-way-din, ghost-of-frozen-death,
Flung on a swirl of snow, from out a deep
Dark pocket of the night, a Great White Owl.
Ugh! Black-medicine! . . . beneath his lids
A stealthy soul would glint like any weasel
Gliding among the shadows in the rushes.
Worn dull from long communing with the ghosts
Of fish, of snakes, of moaning dead, his eyes
Held never a hint of evil; save in winter,
When bleak Kee-way-din, ghost-of-frozen-death,
Flung on a swirl of snow, from out a deep
Dark pocket of the night, a Great White Owl.
Ugh! Black-medicine! . . . beneath his lids
A stealthy soul would glint like any weasel
Gliding among the shadows in the rushes.
