The Indian Girl Who Made Them (Comes after: The Tree of Laughing Bells, or The Wings of the Morning)
These, the Wings of the Morning, An Indian Maiden wove, Intertwining subtilely Wands from a willow grove Beside the Sangamon - Rude stream of Dreamland Town. She bound them to my shoulders With fingers golden-brown. The wings were part of me; The willow-wands were hot. Pulses from my heart Healed each bruise and spot Of the morning-glory buds, Beginning to unfold Beneath her burning song of suns untold.
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"These, the Wings of the Morning,..."
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