Hard by the Indian lodges, where the bush <br /> Breaks in a clearing, through ill-fashioned fields, <br />She comes to labour, when the first still hush <br /> Of autumn follows large and recent yields. <br /> <br />Age in her fingers, hunger in her face, <br /> Her shoulders stooped with weight of work and years, <br />But rich in tawny colouring of her race, <br /> She comes a-field to strip the purple ears. <br /> <br />And all her thoughts are with the days gone by, <br /> Ere might's injustice banished from their lands <br />Her people, that to-day unheeded lie, <br /> Like the dead husks that rustle through her hands.<br /><br />Emily Pauline Johnson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-corn-husker/
