Poem by Carl Sandburg

Early Moon

THE BABY moon, a canoe, a silver papoose canoe, 
             sails and sails in the Indian west.
A ring of silver foxes, a mist of silver foxes, 
             sit and sit around the Indian moon.
One yellow star for a runner, and rows of blue stars for more runners, 
                                               keep a line of watchers.
O foxes, baby moon, runners, you are the panel of memory, 
      fire-white writing to-night of the Red Man's dreams.
Who squats, legs crossed and arms folded, matching its look against the moon-face, 
                                    the star-faces, of the West?
Who are the Mississippi Valley ghosts, of copper foreheads, 
               riding wiry ponies in the night?-no bridles, 
    love-arms on the pony necks, riding in the night a long old trail?
Why do they always come back when the silver foxes sit around the early moon, 
                     a silver papoose, in the Indian west?

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