TO MASSASOIT.
CHIEF SACHEM OF THE WAMPANOAGS.
The vaulted skies your rosary,
The wilderness your shrine,
The lifting sea your ritual,
Would I might make them mine,
O brother Pagan! Here’s my hand,
Would, ’mid the Sisters Seven,
Of yellow hair, in yonder air,
I were as sure of Heaven
As you—who know the trail of Death,
The sorrow of the bird,
The whither, whence, a white-moth flies,
The wood-brook’s laughing word.