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The Sun Dance

Now wheresoever thawing breezes blew

And green began to prickle in the brown,

There went the tale of Crazy Horse’s town

To swell a mood already growing there.

For something more than Spring was in the air,

And, mightier than any maiden’s eyes,

The Lilith-lure of Perilous Emprise

Was setting all the young men’s blood astir.

How fair the more than woman face of her

Whose smile has gulfed how many a daring prow!

What cities burn for jewels on her brow;

Upon her lips what vintages are red!

Her lovers are the tallest of the dead

Forever. When the streams of Troas rolled

So many heroes seaward, she was old;

Yet she is young forever to the young.

’Twas now the murmur of the man-flood, flung

Upon the Hills, grew ominously loud.

The whole white world seemed lifted in a cloud

To sweep the prairie with a monstrous rain.

Slay one, and there were fifty to be slain!

Give fifty to the flame for torturing,

Then count the marching multitude of Spring

Green blade by blade!

Still wilder rumors grew;

They told of soldiers massed against the Sioux

And waiting till the grass was good, to fall

On Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull and Gall

That all the country might be safe for theft,

And nothing of a warrior race be left

But whining beggars in a feeding pen.

Alas, the rights of men⁠—of other men⁠—

That centenary season of the Free!

No doubt the situation wanted tea

To make it clear! But long before the green

Had topped the hills, the agencies grew lean

Of youth and courage. Did a watch dog bark

Midway between the owl and meadowlark?⁠—

Then other lads with bow and shield and lance

Were making for the Region of Romance

Where Sitting Bull’s weird medicine was strong

And Crazy Horse’s name was like a song

A happy warrior sings before he dies,

And Gall’s a wind of many battle cries

That flings a thousand ponies on the doomed.

So where the Powder and the Rosebud boomed,

Men met as water of the melting snows.

The North Cheyennes and North Arapahoes,

Become one people in a common cause

With Brulés, Minneconjoux, Hunkpapas,

Sans Arcs and Ogalalas, came to throng

The valleys; and the villages were long

With camp on camp. Nor was there any bluff,

In all the country, that was tall enough

To number half the ponies at a look.

Here young June came with many tales of Crook,

The Gray Fox, marching up the Bozeman Road.

How long a dust above his horsemen flowed!

How long a dust his walking soldiers made!

What screaming thunder when the pack-mules brayed

And all the six-mule wagon teams replied!

The popping of the whips on sweaty hide,

How like a battle when the foe is bold!

And from the North still other tales were told

By those who heard the steamboats wheeze and groan

With stuffs of war along the Yellowstone

To feed the camps already waiting there.

Awaiting what? The might of Yellow Hair

Now coming from the Heart’s mouth! Rumor guessed

How many Snakes were riding from the West

To join the Whites against their ancient foes;

How many Rees, how many of the Crows

Remembered to be jealous of the Sioux.

Look north, look south⁠—the cloud of trouble grew.

Look east, look west⁠—the whole horizon frowned.

But it was better to be ringed around

With enemies, to battle and to fail,

Than be a beggar chief like Spotted Tail,

However fattened by a hated hand.

Now when the full moon flooded all the land

Before the laughter of the owls began,

They turned to One who, mightier than Man,

Could help them most⁠—the Spirit in the sun;

For whatsoever wonder-work is done

Upon the needy earth, he does it all.

For him the whole world sickens in the fall

When streams cease singing and the skies go gray

And trees and bushes weep their leaves away

In hopeless hushes empty of the bird,

And all day long and all night long are heard

The high geese wailing after their desire.

But, even so, his saving gift of fire

Is given unto miserable men

Until they see him face to face again

And all his magic happen, none knows how.

It was the time when he is strongest now;

And so a holy man whose heart was good

Went forth to find the sacred cottonwood

Belovèd of the Spirit. Straight and high,

A thing of worship yearning for the sky,

It flourished, sunning in a lonely draw;

And there none heard the holy man nor saw

What rites were done, save only one who knows

From whence the new moon comes and whither goes

The old, and what the stars do all day long.

Thereafter came the people with a song,

The men, the boys, the mothers and the maids,

All posy-crowns and blossom-woven braids,

As though a blooming meadow came to see.

And fruitful women danced about the tree

To make the Spirit glad; for, having known

The laughter of the children of their own,

Some goodness of the earth, the giving one,

Was in them and was pleasing to the Sun,

The prairie-loving nourisher of seed.

A warrior who had done the bravest deed

Yet dared that year by any of the Sioux

Now struck the trunk as one who counts a coup

Upon a dreaded foe; and prairie gifts

He gave among the poor, for nothing lifts

The heart like giving. Let the coward save⁠—

Big hoard and little heart; but still the brave

Have more with nothing! Singing virgins came

Whose eyes had never learned to droop with shame,

Nor was there any present, man or youth,

Could say them aught of ill and say the truth,

For sweet as water in a snow-born brook

Where many birches come and lean to look

Along a mountain gorge, their spirits were.

And each one took the ax they gave to her

And smote the tree with many a lusty stroke;

And with a groan the sleeper in it ’woke

And far hills heard the falling shout of him.

Still rang the axes, cleaving twig and limb

Along the tapered beauty of the bole,

Till, naked to the light, the sacred pole

Lay waiting for the bearers.

They who bore

Were chieftains, and their fathers were before,

And all of them had fasted, as they should;

Yet none dared touch the consecrated wood

With naked fingers, out of pious fear.

And once for every season of the year

They paused along the way, remembering

With thanks alike the autumn and the spring,

The winter and the summer.

Then it fell

That many warriors, lifting up a yell

That set their ponies plunging, thundered down

Across the center of the circled town

Where presently the holy tree should stand;

For whosoever first of all the band

Could strike the sacred spot with bow or spear

Might gallop deep among the dead that year

Yet be of those whom busy Death forgot.

And sweaty battle raged about the spot

Where screaming ponies, rearing to the thrust

Of screaming ponies, clashed amid the dust,

And riders wrestled in the hoof-made gloam.

So, having safely brought the sun-tree home,

The people feasted as for victory.

And on the second day they dressed the tree

And planted it with sacred songs and vows,

And round it reared a wall of woven boughs

That opened to the mystic source of day.

And with the next dawn mothers came to lay

Their babies down before the holy one,

Each coveting a hero for a son

Or sturdy daughters fit to nurse the bold.

Then when the fourth dawn came the war drums rolled;

And from their lodges, lean and rendered pure

With meatless days, those vowing to endure

The death-in-torture to be born again,

Came naked there before the holy men

Who painted them with consecrated paint.

And if a knee seemed loosened, it was faint

With fast and weary vigil, not with dread;

For lo! the multitudinary dead

Pressed round to see if heroes such as they

Still walked the earth despite the smaller day

When ’twas not half so easy to be brave.

Now, prone beneath the pole, as in a grave,

Without a wince each vower took the blade

In chest or back, and through the wound it made

Endured the passing of the rawhide thong,

Swung from the pole’s top; raised a battle song

To daunt his anguish; staggered to his feet

And, leaning, capered to the war drum’s beat

A dizzy rigadoon with Agony.

So all day long the spirit-haunted tree

Bore bloody fruitage, groaning to the strain,

For with the dropping of the ripe-in-pain,

Upon the stem the green-in-courage grew.

And seldom had there fallen on the Sioux

So great a wind of ghostly might as then.

Boys tripped it, bleeding, with the tortured men.

The mothers, daughters, sisters, sweethearts, wives

Of those who suffered, gashed their flesh with knives

To share a little of the loved one’s pang;

And all day long the sunning valley rang

With songs of courage; and the mother sod

Received the red libation; and the god

Gave power to his people.