Saying, 'O! my Yakonwita call me, call me, be my guide
To the lodge beyond the prairie--for I vowed ere winter died
I would come again, beloved;
I would claim my Indian bride.'
'Yakonwita, Yakonwita!' Oh, the dreariness that strains
Through the voice that calling, quivers, till a whisper but remains,
I am lost upon the plains.'
But the Silent Spirit hushed him, lulled him as he cried anew,
'Save me, save me! O! beloved, I am Pale but I am true.
I am dying, love, for you.'
Leagues afar, across the prairie, she had risen from her bed,
Roused her kinsmen from their slumber: 'He has come tonight,' she said.
'I can hear him calling, calling;
But his voice is as the dead.
'Listen!' and they sate all silent, while the tempest louder grew,
And a spirit-voice called faintly, 'I am dying, love, for you.'
Then they wailed, 'O! Yakonwita.
He was Pale, but he was true.'
Wrapped she then her ermine round her, stepped without the tepee door,
Saying, 'I must follow, follow, though he call for evermore,
And they never saw her more.
Late at night, say Indian hunters, when the starlight clouds or wanes,
Far away they see a maiden, misty as the autumn rains,
Guiding with her lamp of moonlight
Hunters lost upon the plains.