POETRY: A Magazine of Verse
When the beach crawled longly down
To the low sea, at morn,
With my sharp hunting little knife
I killed the fat Father of the Clams!
. . . . . ."Leqa-a-a-to'q!". . .(Ho? ai-ai?. . .Angrily she calls me!)
Farewell, slaves:
I hear the loud voice of the Great Chief's Great Woman calling,—
The high voice of the Great Chief's great Little Son's great Mother.
"Leqa-a-ato'q——co-omes!"
See Me!
Grinding, flashing, my long, white, many, fierce, little teeth!
I run, I run, I run—Ki-Ki-Ki-y!—
To eat my big little supper.
SONG OF WHIP-PLAITING
In the dawn I gathered cedar-boughs
For the plaiting of thy whip
They were wet with sweet drops;
They still thought of the night.
All alone I shredded cedar-boughs,
Green boughs in the pale light,
Where the morning meets the sea,
And the great mountain stops.
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