An Indian Summer Day On The Prairie


The sun is a huntress young,
The sun is a red, red joy,
The sun is an indian girl,
Of the tribe of the Illinois.


The sun is a smouldering fire,
That creeps through the high gray plain,
And leaves not a bush of cloud
To blossom with flowers of rain.


The sun is a wounded deer,
That treads pale grass in the skies,
Shaking his golden horns,
Flashing his baleful eyes.


The sun is an eagle old,
There in the windless west.
Atop of the spirit-cliffs
He builds him a crimson nest.

by Vachel Lindsay

Comments (2)

I only hope i can forgive with the grace and forgiveness i have been desperate and humbly grateful to receive. Thank you for your poem
Few people have the guts to ask for forgiveness. Few people have the courage to grant forgiveness.