Pegowis

Just where the ridgepole cleaves the blue A star looks down on Pegowis, And the star and the iris sky and the dew And the kindly trees are his.

Nothing he does but lie in the sun And dream of the deeds he used to do, Of the raided herd and the buffalo run And the thundering caribou.

Pegowis thinks no more on sorrow, Pegowis neither is glad nor grieves. His eyes are turned to the misty morrow, His hands are like brown leaves.

Yet here comes one with a bowl of corn, Here come two with a beaver skin. Noon and evening, night and morn, The folk go out and in.

None will tell where the wonder is, But the children pause with a catch of the breath, Murmuring, "It is Pegowis, Pegowis The friend of Death."

Pegowis lies in a land withdrawn. Blind is he to the bloodroot pale, Deaf to the thrushes that sing at dawn "Follow, follow!" along the trail.

Pegowis neither will know nor tell What the little winds say as they touch his face, But he hath the look of those that dwell In a happy place.