"Give me of your bark, O Birch-tree!
Of your yellow bark, O Birch-tree!
Growing by the rushing river,
The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of night
As a feather wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.
In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims
The night is come, but not too soon;
And sinking silently,
All silently, the little moon
Drops down behind the sky.
There is a Reaper whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.
On the green little isle of Inchkenneth,
Who is it that walks by the shore,
So gay with his Highland blue bonnet,
No hay pajaros en los nidos de antano.
The sun is bright,--the air is clear,
You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis,
How the handsome Yenadizze
Danced at Hiawatha's wedding;
Should you ask me,
whence these stories?
Whence these legends and traditions,
With the odors of the forest
X. Hiawatha's Wooing
"As unto the bow the cord is,
So unto the man is woman,