Across the flats of stinging sands,
Through thickets, woods, and sere uplands,
Their weary pathway shows;
Toward some far fort of logs and stakes
Deep hidden in the willow brakes,
Right onward still it goes
Persistently, an unblazed track,
Bent from the cheerless bivouac
Of some poor, prairie Indian band
Whose chill and flimsy tepees stand