Close to the tipi glided like a thief;
With lips apart, and eager bended head,
She listened there to what the conjurer said.
His voice, low, musical, recounted o’er
Strange tales of days when other forms he wore:
How, far above the highest airy plain
Where soars and sings the weird, fantastic crane,
Wafted like thistle-down he strayed at will,
With power almost supreme for good or ill,
Over all lands and nations near and far,