English poem
VII.
An Indian woman crept, a crone, Hard by about the land alone, The relic of her perished race. She wore rich, rudely-fashioned bands Of gold above her bony hands: She hissed hot curses on the place!
Versos English Joaquin Miller VII.
English poem
An Indian woman crept, a crone, Hard by about the land alone, The relic of her perished race. She wore rich, rudely-fashioned bands Of gold above her bony hands: She hissed hot curses on the place!