POETRY: A Magazine of Verse
The quick beating of their hearts is the whisper along the bending grass.
The sod grows warm—O men, Summer-dawn is the spirit of the women!
They have washed their hearts with prayer,
And their bodies with juices of cedar:
Perfumed and dried by the wind they have come up from the shore—
The great hosts of the women—
Unwrapping themselves from the mists of the morning.
They have entered the forest with the footfalls of muted music,
With light tossing steps like the spray on long beaches.
The swinging trees drip dew:
With lines of sparkling rain they point the way the women have gone,
Leaving all the paths to them open.
Harken! They follow Tem-Eyos-Kwi, singing:
"Come, come, O swift and strong!
We are the women: seek us!
Our hearts, like little swallows, nest above the secret pools.
Oh, say, shall not the winged dart pierce,
And the shadow of the bended bow
Stir the still, deep pools?
Oh, the waters shall sparkle and leap and mingle,
And brim at your lips, O men!
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