Emily Pauline Johnson

[Tekahionwake] (10 March 1861 – 7 March 1913 / Chiefswood, Ontario)

Emily Pauline Johnson Poems

41. Marshlands 1/1/2004
42. Moonset 1/1/2004
43. Mosses 1/1/2004
44. My English Letter 1/1/2004
45. Nocturne 1/1/2004
46. Ojistoh 1/1/2004
47. Overlooked 1/1/2004
48. Penseroso 1/1/2004
49. Prairie Greyhounds (C.P.R. "No. 1," Westbound) 1/1/2004
50. Rainfall 1/1/2004
51. Re-Voyage 1/1/2004
52. Shadow River 1/1/2004
53. Silhouette 1/1/2004
54. The Archers 1/1/2004
55. The Art Of Alma-Tadema 1/1/2004
56. The Ballad Of Yaada (A Legend Of The Pacific Coast) 1/1/2004
57. The Birds' Lullaby 4/7/2010
58. The Camper 1/1/2004
59. The Cattle Country 1/1/2004
60. The Cattle Thief 1/1/2004
61. The City And The Sea 1/1/2004
62. The Corn Husker 1/1/2004
63. The Firs 1/1/2004
64. The Flight Of The Crows 1/1/2004
65. The Giant Oak 1/1/2004
66. The Happy Hunting Grounds 1/1/2004
67. The Homing Bee 1/1/2004
68. The Idlers 1/1/2004
69. The Indian Corn Planter 1/1/2004
70. The King's Consort 1/1/2004
71. The Legend Of Qu'Appelle Valley 1/1/2004
72. The Lifting Of The Mist 1/1/2004
73. The Lost Lagoon 1/1/2004
74. The Man In Chrysanthemum Land 1/1/2004
75. The Maple 1/1/2004
76. The Mariner 1/1/2004
77. The Overture 1/1/2004
78. The Pilot Of The Plains 4/7/2010
79. The Quill Worker 1/1/2004
80. The Riders Of The Plains 1/1/2004
Best Poem of Emily Pauline Johnson

A Cry From An Indian Wife

My forest brave, my Red-skin love, farewell;
We may not meet to-morrow; who can tell
What mighty ills befall our little band,
Or what you'll suffer from the white man's hand?
Here is your knife! I thought 'twas sheathed for aye.
No roaming bison calls for it to-day;
No hide of prairie cattle will it maim;
The plains are bare, it seeks a nobler game:
'Twill drink the life-blood of a soldier host.
Go; rise and strike, no matter what the cost.
Yet stay. Revolt not at the Union Jack,
Nor raise Thy hand against this stripling pack
Of white-faced ...

Read the full of A Cry From An Indian Wife

Moonset

Idles the night wind through the dreaming firs,
That waking murmur low,
As some lost melody returning stirs
The love of long ago;
And through the far, cool distance, zephyr fanned.
The moon is sinking into shadow-land.

The troubled night-bird, calling plaintively,
Wanders on restless wing;

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