My white canoe, like the silvery airnO'er the River of Death that darkly rollsnWhen the moons of the world are round and fair,nI paddle back from the 'Camp of Souls.'nWhen the wishton-wish in the low swamp grievesnCome the dark plumes of red 'Singing Leaves.'nnTwo hundred times have the moons of springnRolled over the bright bay's azure breathnSince they decked me with plumes of an eagle's wing,nAnd painted my face with the 'paint of death,'nAnd from their pipes o'er my corpse there brokenThe solemn rings of the blue 'last smoke.'nnTwo hundred times have the wintry moonsnWrapped the dead earth in a blanket white;nTwo hundred times have the wild sky loonsnShrieked in the flush of the golden lightnOf the first sweet dawn, when the summer weavesnHer dusky wigwam of perfect leaves.nnTwo hundred moons of the falling leafnSince they laid my bow in my dead right handnAnd chanted above me the 'song of grief'nAs I took my way to the spirit land;nYet when the swallow the blue air cleavesnCome the dark plumes of red 'Singing Leaves.'nnWhite are the wigwams in that far camp,nAnd the star-eyed deer on the plains are found;nNo bitter marshes or tangled swampnIn the Manitou's happy hunting-ground!nAnd the moon of summer forever rollsnAbove the red men in their 'Camp of Souls.'nnBlue are its lakes as the wild dove's breast,nAnd their murmurs soft as her gentle note;nAs the calm, large stars in the deep sky rest,nThe yellow lilies upon them float;nAnd canoes, like flakes of the silvery snow,nnThrough the tall, rustling rice-beds come and go.nnGreen are its forests; no warrior windnRushes on war trail the dusk grove through,nWith leaf-scalps of tall trees mourning behind;nBut South Wind, heart friend of Great Manitou,nWhen ferns and leaves with cool dews are wet,nBows flowery breaths from his red calumet.nnNever upon them the white frosts lie,nNor glow their green boughs with the 'paint of death';nManitou smiles in the crystal sky,nClose breathing above them His life-strong breath;nAnd He speaks no more in fierce thunder sound,nSo near is His happy hunting-ground.nnYet often I love, in my white canoe,nTo come to the forests and camps of earth:n'Twas there death's black arrow pierced me through;n'Twas there my red-browed mother gave me birth;nThere I, in the light of a young man's dawn,nWon the lily heart of dusk 'Springing Fawn.'nnAnd love is a cord woven out of life,nAnd dyed in the red of the living heart;nAnd time is the hunter's rusty knife,nThat cannot cut the red strands apart:nAnd I sail from the spirit shore to scannWhere the weaving of that strong cord began.nnBut I may not come with a giftless hand,nSo richly I pile, in my white canoe,nFlowers that bloom in the spirit land,nImmortal smiles of Great Manitou.nWhen I paddle back to the shores of earthnI scatter them over the white man's hearth.nnFor love is the breath of the soul set free;nSo I cross the river that darkly rolls,nThat my spirit may whisper soft to theenOf thine who wait in the 'Camp of Souls.'nWhen the bright day laughs, or the wan night grieves,nCome the dusky plumes of red 'Singing Leaves.'