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The
White Wampum
by
Emily Pauline Johnson
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MOONSET
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IDLES
the night wind through the dreaming firs,
That waking murmur low,
As some lost melody returning stirs
The love of long ago;
And through the far, cool distance, zephyr fanned,
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The
moon is sinking into shadow land.
The troubled night-bird, calling plaintively,
Wanders on restless wing;
The cedars, chanting vespers to the sea,
Await its answering,
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That
comes in wash of waves along the strand,
The while the moon slips into shadow-land,
O! soft responsive voices of the night
I join your minstrelsy,
And call across the fading silver light
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As something
calls to me;
I may not all your meaning understand,
But I have touched your soul in shadow-land. [Page
46]
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