She is free of the trap and the paddle, <br />The portage and the trail, <br />But something behind her savage life <br />Shines like a fragile veil. <br /> <br />Her dreams are undiscovered, <br />Shadows trouble her breast, <br />When the time for resting cometh <br />Then least is she at rest. <br /> <br />Oft in the morns of winter, <br />When she visits the rabbit snares, <br />An appearance floats in the crystal air <br />Beyond the balsam firs. <br /> <br />Oft in the summer mornings <br />When she strips the nets of fish, <br />The smell of the dripping net-twine <br />Gives to her heart a wish. <br /> <br />But she cannot learn the meaning <br />Of the shadows in her soul, <br />The lights that break and gather, <br />The clouds that part and roll, <br /> <br />The reek of rock-built cities, <br />Where her fathers dwelt of yore, <br />The gleam of loch and shealing, <br />The mist on the moor, <br /> <br />Frail traces of kindred kindness, <br />Of feud by hill and strand, <br />The heritage of an age-long life <br />In a legendary land. <br /> <br />She wakes in the stifling wigwam, <br />Where the air is heavy and wild, <br />She fears for something or nothing <br />With the heart of a frightened child. <br /> <br />She sees the stars turn slowly <br />Past the tangle of the poles, <br />Through the smoke of the dying embers, <br />Like the eyes of dead souls. <br /> <br />Her heart is shaken with longing <br />For the strange, still years, <br />For what she knows and knows not, <br />For the wells of ancient tears. <br /> <br />A voice calls from the rapids, <br />Deep, careless and free, <br />A voice that is larger than her life <br />Or than her death shall be. <br /> <br />She covers her face with her blanket, <br />Her fierce soul hates her breath, <br />As it cries with a sudden passion <br />For life or death.<br /><br />Duncan Campbell Scott<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-half-breed-girl/
