CHANT FOR THE MOON-OF-FLOWERS
On the sacred flame, O Mighty Mystery,
I fling my handful of good red-willow bark;
Like willow smoke that floats upon the dusk,
My prayer goes winding up the sky to you:
I fling my handful of good red-willow bark;
Like willow smoke that floats upon the dusk,
My prayer goes winding up the sky to you:
In the Moon-of-Strawberries-and-Raspberries
Stain the green world, O Maker-of-all-good-things,
With a bursting yield of berries; let them hang
Plenty upon the bush, and heavy with blood.
Let the trout and whitefish walk into my nets
Thick as the stars that swim across the sky;
And may the big-knives offer plenty silver
For every catch of fish; ho! let the price
Of fat young pike and trout be seven coppers
No longer—eight is good, and nine is better.
Not for myself I ask all this,
But for my little boy, Red-Owl,
For he is good.
Stain the green world, O Maker-of-all-good-things,
With a bursting yield of berries; let them hang
Plenty upon the bush, and heavy with blood.
Let the trout and whitefish walk into my nets
Thick as the stars that swim across the sky;
And may the big-knives offer plenty silver
For every catch of fish; ho! let the price
Of fat young pike and trout be seven coppers
No longer—eight is good, and nine is better.
Not for myself I ask all this,
But for my little boy, Red-Owl,
For he is good.
62
