The sad sage gray Dakota Hills
That stood around me at my mapping table
Pestered with flies stay with me; the great moaning
Of wind that walks that country day and night
The years of famine and the years of blight
Are in that wind and all the helpless anger
That men defrauded turn against themselves
Before they lift their rifles from their shelves
And I have seen the ghosts of the Dakotahs,
Out of revenge on white men, smut the corn,
Ride like Russian thistles on a dust storm,
Crack earth with drouth, as hoppers darken the sun.
And I have heard the foxes on the hill
Barking a question, insects at the sill,
Drawn by my lamp, as they flung themselves at the flame,
Whirred with their wings no other name but my name.
I have stepped from farmhouse kitchens and been drowned
In the great empty of the country nights
And seen the Northern Lights
Beam after Beam shoot over, seeking me
But I would not be found and would not cry
Here! Here am I! Send Me!
Or whisper from the ground,
For I knew I could not answer such hard questions
And better never heard and never found.
And yet I never cease to ponder the questions
Of the creatures of the country without trees,
But all the answers I know are wordy or bloody,
Sick with swords or social disease;
And though my country silence answered nothing
And vigilance and patience are unsure
I have given my love to the askers of hard questions
Til what discovers darkness finds dark’s cure.