The Camp of Souls

My white canoe, like the silvery air 

O'er the River of Death that darkly rolls 

When the moons of the world are round and fair 

I paddle back from the Camp of Souls 

When the wishtonwish in the low swamp grieves 

Come the dark plumes of the red singing leaves 



Two hundred times have the moons of spring 

Rolled over the bright bay's azure breath 

Since they decked me with plumes of an eagle's wing 

And painted my face with the paint of death 



The camp of souls 

The camp of souls 



And from thy pipe o'er my corpse there broke 

The solemn rings of the blue last smoke 



Two hundred times have the wintry moons 

Wrapped the dead earth in a blanket white 

Two hundred times have the wild sky loons 

Shrieked in the flush of the golden light 



The camp of souls 

The camp of souls 



They chanted above me the song of grief 

As I took my way to the spirit land 



For love is the breath of the soul set free 

So I walk a river that darkly rolls 

That my spirit may whisper soft to thee 

Of thine who wait in the Camp of Souls 

When the bright day laughs, or the wan night grieves 

Come the dark plumes of red singing leaves