To My Indian Pipe.

Thou, with the black stone stem, what of the past?

Where are the cunning hands that fashioned thee?

Where are the stern brown lips that placidly

Drew comfort from thee‘ neath the towering mast

Of some old pine; or, patient to the last,

Toiled over thee? Perchance thou wert a god

Worshipped and feared by those whose light feet trod

The dim green aisles of that cathedral vast:

But now thine incense rises, and I see

The still north land, and hear the otter dive,

The rapids calling, and the great trout leap;

And smoking here it seemeth like to me

As if some dead hands touched the hands alive,

In token of the fellowship we keep.