THE POTTERY PEDDLER
I saw him with his pack of wares,
Spoil of an ancient craft,——
His body supple as the bow
After the true-sped shaft:
I liked the weave of banded wool
That girt him at the thighs;
I liked the glint of gaudy things
That filled me with surmise:
The abalone at his ears,
His beaded turquoise string;
The kerchief round his glossy hair——
Red on a blackbird’s wing:
I liked the silver where its hue
Shone on his earth-brown skin,
And, oh, his patient eyes I liked,
All smouldering within.
I saw him loping up the road
Made by the white man’s hand:
His step was soundless, and he seemed
A phantom in the land.
I saw him on a white man’s street——
And, lo, the street was gone
A century of centuries
While still mine eyes looked on!
And I beheld him, lithe and proud,
Chief upon plain and hill,——
The eagle was his panoply,
The mountain lion his kill:
About him thronged his earth-brown kin,
Rhythmic with the drum,——
I saw their gleaming feathers
And their bright musicians come:
I saw them with their patterned robes,
Their glint of gaudy things,
Their greens, their reds, their silver whites,
Their dangles and their rings:
A century of centuries
While still mine eyes looked on:
An Indian—and the white man’s street
Ten thousand years agone!