Ghosts of Indians

Indian-footed move the mists From the corner of the lake, Silent, sinuous and bent; And their trailing feathers shake, Tremble to forgotten leapings, While with lingerings and creepings Down they lean again to slake The dead thirst of parching mouths, Lean their pale mouths in the lake. Indian-footed move the mists That were hiding in the pine, Out upon the oval lake In a bent and ghostly line Lean and drink for better sleeping ... Then they turn again and- creeping, Gliding as with fur and fins- Disappear through woods and water On a thousand moccasins.