Читать книгу Cross Roads - Margaret E. Sangster - Страница 8

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I creep along, but silently,

For, oh, the dawn is coming;

I creep along, for I have heard

A flint-tipped arrow, humming;

And I have heard a snapping twig,

Above the wind's low laughter;

And I have known—and thrilled to know,

That swift THEY followed after!

The forest turns from black to grey,

The leaves are silver-shining;

But I have heard a far-off call—

The war-whoop's sullen whining.

And I have been a naked form,

Among the tree trunks prowling;

And I have glimpsed a savage face,

That faded from me, scowling.

A rosy color sweeps the sky,

A vagrant lark is singing,

But, as I steal along the trail,

I know that day is bringing

A host of red-skins in its train,

Their tommy-hawks are gleaming—

I SEE THEM NOW; or can it be

The first pale sunlight beaming?

I creep along, but stealthily,

For, oh, the dawn is coming!

I creep along—but I have heard

A flint-tipped arrow, humming. …

And yet, my heart is light, inside,

My soul, itself, is flying

To greet the dawn! I AM ALIVE—

AND WHAT IS DEATH—BUT DYING?