O’er the weird circle of the midnight dance,
Through all the gamut ran of human woes,
Passion, and joy. A woman’s love she had
For ornament; on gala days was clad
In garments of the softest doeskin fine,
With shells about her neck; moccasins neat
Were drawn, like gloves, upon her little feet,
Adorned with scarlet quills of porcupine.
Innocent of the niceties refined
That to the toilet her pale sisters bind,