Great numbers of the Indians pass our camp on their hunting excursions: the day was clear and pleasant, but last night was very cold and there was a white frost.
quote by Meriwether Lewis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I don't feel we did wrong in taking this great country away from them. There were great numbers of people who needed new land, and the Indians were selfishly trying to keep it for themselves.
quote by John Wayne
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Bedtime Story
I'm going to tell you a bed time story
it's the one my Grandpa told long ago to me.
But the bed time story I will tell you tonight
will become a part of, now your families history!
It will tell of the days of covered wagons
that once rolled across the prairies green!
And tales of hunting and fishing
you will invision all of my story telling scenes.
Of indians and cowboys!
around the camp fires and hunting buffalo!
And homes built from the lands trees
and those fields, that the farmers plows tilled to grow.
I will tell you a bed time story
that you will tell your own children one day!
I will tell it the way my Grandpa told it to me
then you can tell your story, in your way one day!
poem by Linda Winchell
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In camp was found a book, the first of the kind I had ever seen, in which I was made a great hero, slaying Indians by the hundreds.
quote by Kit Carson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Frost Spirit
He comes, - he comes, - the Frost Spirit comes!
You may trace his footsteps now
On the naked woods and the blasted fields
And the brown hill's withered brow.
He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees
Where their pleasant green came forth,
And the winds, which follow wherever he goes,
Have shaken them down to earth.
He comes, - he comes, - the Frost Spirit comes!
From the frozen Labrador,
From the icy bridge of the northern seas,
Which the white bear wanders o'er,
Where the fisherman's sail is stiff with ice,
And the luckless forms below
In the sunless cold of the lingering night
Into marble statues grow!
He comes, - he comes, - the Frost Spirit comes!
On the rushing Northern blast,
And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed
As his fearful breath went past.
With an unscorched wing he has hurried on,
Where the fires of Hecla glow
On the darkly beautiful sky above
And the ancient ice below.
He comes, - he comes, - the Frost Spirit comes!
And the quiet lake shall feel
The torpid touch of his glazing breath,
And ring to the skater's heel;
And the streams which danced on the broken rocks,
Or sang to the leaning grass,
Shall bow again to their winter chain,
And in mournful silence pass.
He comes, - he comes, - the Frost Spirit comes!
Let us meet him as we may,
And turn with the light of the parlor-fire
His evil power away;
And gather closer the circle 'round,
When the firelight dances high,
And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend
As his sounding wing goes by!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Night frost
Night frost
~
I watch through the window
The night frost roll out
Encasing the world slowly
Plants wither away
Gardens turn white
Parked cars sink beneath
The white tapestry of winter
A beautiful savagery
Emerges before my eyes
The night frost is unforgiving
Yet captivates me
I watch through a window
In sleepless fascination
The beauty of a world
In transformation
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Having Lost My Sons, I Confront the Wreckage of the Moon: Christmas, 1960
After dark
Near the South Dakota border,
The moon is out hunting, everywhere,
Delivering fire,
And walking down hallways
Of a diamond.
Behind a tree,
It ights on the ruins
Of a white city
Frost, frost.
Where are they gone
Who lived there?
Bundled away under wings
And dark faces.
I am sick
Of it, and I go on
Living, alone, alone,
Past the charred silos, past the hidden graves
Of Chippewas and Norwegians.
This cold winter
Moon spills the inhuman fire
Of jewels
Into my hands.
Dead riches, dead hands, the moon
Darkens,
And I am lost in the beautiful white ruins
Of America.
poem by James Arlington Wright
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Everything Was White
Woke up this morning,
outside I beheld
a wonderful sight.
Jack Frost had been around
and everything was white.
It might have been cold,
but I didn’t care.
You could see your breath
freezing in the morning air.
Out came the scraper
to get the frost of the car,
still it was a wonderful sight
seeing Jack Frost’s handy work
and everything white.
poem by David Harris
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Facing The Frost
People, around me, are confidently striding,
While I worry about slipping and sliding.
Where it is clear, my confidence grows,
But where it is icy, my pace, again, slows.
People are walking, looking fairly relaxed;
While I walk, head down, watching my tracks.
I approach an icy patch, and pull a funny face,
As, once again, I find I have to slow my pace.
I see some children on their way to school;
With walking on ice, they seem pretty cool.
From the looks on their faces, it is very clear,
That, unlike me, they do not hold any fear.
Where I am able, I walk along on the grass,
So that icy patches, on the pavement, I pass.
At times, I have no choice, but to face the ice;
With the threat of potential injury, I now dice.
My face is a picture of concern and worry;
With the ice around, I feel unable to hurry.
My journey to work seems to take forever.
Needless to say, I’m not a fan of this weather.
It is a cold and sunny morn, but by midday,
Some patches of ice have begun to melt away.
The top temperature today is only four degrees;
It’s been forecast that tonight it will, again, freeze.
Upon the frozen ground, where shadows fall,
The frost appears not to have melted at all.
The shady side of the street is still ice white,
While the sunny side, is now clear and bright.
Come afternoon, some patches of ice are still there;
Shrouded in shadow; untouched by the sun’s glare
The day grows older and night time draws near;
The time when Jack Frost, once again, will appear.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Sleeping on a Night of Autumn Rain
Cold cold 3rd autumn night
Peaceful leisure one old man
Lie late lamp go out after
Sleep beautiful rain sound in
Ash long warm bottle fire
Fragrance increase warm quilt cover
Sawn clear cold not rise
Frost leaf full level red
It's cold this night in autumn's third month,
Peacefully within, a lone old man.
He lies down late, the lamp already gone out,
And beautifully sleeps amid the sound of rain.
The ash inside the vessel still warm from the fire,
Its fragrance increases the warmth of quilt and covers.
When dawn comes, clear and cold, he does not rise,
The red frosted leaves cover the steps.
To illustrate to the Indians the advantages the white race had in the telephone I divided a body of warriors from Sitting Bull's camp into two parties and had them talk to each other over the telephone line.
quote by Nelson A. Miles
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Renouveau. (From The French)
Now Time throws off his cloak again
Of ermined frost, and cold and rain,
And clothes him in the embroidery
Of glittering son and clear blue sky.
With beast and bird the forest rings,
Each in his jargon cries or sings;
And Time throws off his cloak again
Of ermined frost, and cold and rain.
River, and fount, and tinkling brook
Wear in their dainty livery
Drops of silver jewelry;
In new-made suit they merry look;
And Time throws off his cloak again
Of ermined frost, and cold and rain.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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A September Night In The Countryside
Out there in the quiet countryside in the still of the night
The unmistakeable cry of a hunting fox in the moonlight
And perhaps at the threat of a predator to their ground nest nearby
The wary spur wing plovers are calling as they fly
Like the fox the predatory night birds have young to feed this time of year
And the loud screech of a barn owl not a pleasant sound to hear
And to the boobook calls of mopoke on the nearby trees
The brooding small bird in her nest does listen with a sense of unease
On the quiet rural roadway few cars pass up and down
On a September night in the countryside miles from the nearest town
And the calls of the male ringtail possum one never could mistake
He will be back in his leafy nest before sunrise at daybreak
The predatory birds and animals who hide from the lamp of day
In the still of a September night are out hunting for prey.
poem by Francis Duggan
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On A Cold Night
The night was cold
and the streets rolled out
like endless corridors
stretching onwards
street lights broke shadows
at regular intervals
while the end of the path
remained just beyond sight
the sky clear, star lit
a half moon visible
while the frost took hold
amid the dimming light
and silence made noises
enough to play the mind
to the cold of the night
during a walk home
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Grand Rapids
Air -- "Bright Alfaretta"
Wild roved the Indians once
On the banks of Grand River,
And they built their little huts
Down by that flowing river.
In a pleasant valley fair,
Where flows the river rapid,
An Indian village once was there,
Where now stands Grand Rapids.
Indian girls and boys were seen,
With their bow and quiver,
Riding in their light canoes
Up and down the river.
Their hearts were full of joy,
Happy voices singing
Made music with forest birds,
They kept the valley ringing.
Indians have left and gone
Beyond the Mississippi.
They called the river Owashtenong
Where stands this pleasant city.
Louis Campau the first white man
Bought land in Grand Rapids.
He lived and died, an honored man
By people of Grand Rapids.
When Campau came to the valley
No bridge was across the river;
Indians in their light canoes
Rowed them o'er the water.
Railroads now from every way
Run through the city, Grand Rapids;
The largest town in west Michigan
Is the city of Grand Rapids.
poem by Julia A Moore
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Frost
Frost covers fallen bridges,
As it does the ones that stand.
The whiteness settles overywhere.
It's gone when I touch your hand.
The morning is when we see the frost,
Yet we know it came the night before.
I've been awake, still it has come;
Quiet and cold to our locked door.
We have watched frost go.
Have you ever seen it start,
As it wanders up the gulch
And slinks into our hearts?
Then there's always morninig,
Or you suppose ther'll always be.
The sun the frost is melting
As we go on, you and me.
We need to talk more when it's forming,
Not just be glad when it's gone,
For, unlike flowers, we seen to wither,
Warmed only by the dawn.
poem by Tom J. Mariani
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Hunters Lullaby
Your fathers gone a-hunting
Hes deep in the forest so wild
And he cannot take his wife with him
He cannot take his child
Your fathers gone a-hunting
In the quicksand and the clay
And a woman cannot follow him
Although she knows the way
Your fathers gone a-hunting
Through the silver and the glass
Where only greed can enter
But spirit, spirit cannot pass
Your fathers gone a-hunting
For the beast well never cannot bind
And he leaves a baby sleeping
And his blessings all behind
Your fathers gone a-hunting
And hes lost his lucky charm
And hes lost the guardian heart
That keeps the hunter from the harm
Your fathers gone a-hunting
He asked me to say goodbye
And he warned me not to stop him
I wouldnt, I wouldnt even try
song performed by by Leonard Cohen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cold, clear, and blue the morning heaven
Cold, clear, and blue the morning heaven
Expands its arch on high;
Cold, clear, and blue Lake Werna's water
Reflects that winter sky:
The moon has set, but Venus shines,
A silent, silvery star.
Will the day be bright or cloudy?
Sweetly has its dawn begun;
But the heaveb may shake with thunder
Ere the settling sun.
Lady, watch Apollo's journey;
Thus thy first hour's course shall be;
If his beams through summer vapours
Warm the earth all placidly,
Her days shall pass like a pleasant dream in sweet tranquility.
If it darken, if a shadow
Quench his rays and summon rain,
Flowers may open, buds may blossom,
Bud and flower alike are vain;
Her days shall pass like a mournful story in care and tears and pain.
If the wind be fresh and free,
The wide skies clear and cloudless blue,
The woods and fields and golden flowers
Sparkling in sunshine and in dew,
Her days shall pass in Glory's light the world's drear desert through.
poem by Emily Brontë from The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë (1908)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Hanover Winter Song
Ho, a song by the fire;
Pass the pipes, pass the bowl.
Ho, a song by the fire
With a skoal, with a skoal.
Ho, a song by the fire;
Pass the pipes with a skoal,
For the wolf-wind is wailing at the doorways,
And the snow drifts deep along the road,
And the ice gnomes are marching from their Norways,
And the great white cold walks abroad.
But, here by the fire, we defy frost and storm;
Ha, ha we are warm, and we have our heart's desire.
For here, we're good fellows, and the beechwood and the bellows;
And the cup is at the lip in the pledge of fellowship.
Oh, here by the fire, we defy frost and storm;
Ha, ha, we are warm, and we have our heart's desire.
For here we're good fellows, and the beechwood and the bellows.
And the cup is at the lip in the pledge of fellowship,
Of fellowship
Pile the logs on the fire;
Fill the pipes, pass the bowl.
Pile the logs on the fire
With a skoal, with a skoal.
Pile the logs on the fire;
Fill the pipes with a skoal,
For the fire goblins flicker on the ceiling,
And the wine witch glitters in the glass,
And the smoke wraiths are drifting, curling, reeling,
And the sleigh bells jingle as they pass.
But, here by the fire, we defy frost and storm;
Ha, ha we are warm, and we have our heart's desire.
For here, we're good fellows, and the beechwood and the bellows;
And the cup is at the lip in the pledge of fellowship.
Oh, here by the fire, we defy frost and storm;
Ha, ha, we are warm, and we have our heart's desire.
For here we're good fellows, and the beechwood and the bellows.
And the cup is at the lip in the pledge of fellowship,
Of fellowship
Oh, a God is the fire;
Pull the pipes, drain the bowl.
Oh, a God is the fire
With a skoal, with a skoal.
Oh, a God is the fire;
Pull the pipes with a skoal,
For the room has a spirit in the embers,
Tis a God and our fathers knew his name,
And they worship'd him in long-forgot Decembers,
And their hearts leap'd high with the flame.
poem by Richard Hovey
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We’re Indians First and Lastly!
We’re Indians firstly!
And that’s the way, we’re known all o’er the globe;
And that is what we tell the world around;
This is our primary identity.
We’re Indians firstly!
We may belong to any state by birth;
Then come our language, creed, community;
We’re Indians primarily!
We’re Indians firstly!
United are we by the tricolor;
The soil is one, though states be many;
We’re Indians basically!
We’re proud of our rich our Indian heritage;
Our thirst is quenched by rivers of India;
Our hunger is appeased by crops grown here;
We’re Indians first and ultimately!
Let none dare try to sow seeds of discord;
The Indian’s free to live in any state;
When asked, let always be our reply,
‘We’re Indians firstly!
God gave one sun and moon to all of us;
We live under the sky, our common roof;
We enjoy freedom got by same ‘Struggle’!
We’re Indians all, firstly!
We’re Indians firstly!
Our patriotism is Indianness;
Our pride’s in being born as Indians;
We’re Indians first and lastly!
All Indians are our brothers and sisters;
We love our fellowmen as our brethren;
Same blood of oneness flows within us all;
We’re Indians first, always, ultimately!
‘Jai Hind! Jai Bharat! Jai bharatiya! Jai bharatvaasi!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 6-2-2010
poem by John Celes
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Star-Talk
'Are you awake, Gemelli,
This frosty night?'
'We'll be awake till reveillé,
Which is Sunrise,' say the Gemelli,
'It's no good trying to go to sleep:
If there's wine to be got we'll drink it deep,
But rest is hopeless to-night,
But rest is hopeless to-night.'
'Are you cold too, poor Pleiads,
This frosty night?'
'Yes, and so are the Hyads:
See us cuddle and hug,' say the Pleiads,
'All six in a ring: it keeps us warm:
We huddle together like birds in a storm:
It's bitter weather to-night,
It's bitter weather to-night.'
'What do you hunt, Orion,
This starry night?'
'The Ram, the Bull and the Lion,
And the Great Bear,' says Orion,
'With my starry quiver and beautiful belt
I am trying to find a good thick pelt
To warm my shoulders to-night,
To warm my shoulders to-night.
'Did you hear that, Great She-bear,
This frosty night?
'Yes, he's talking of stripping me bare
Of my own big fur,' says the She-bear,
'I'm afraid of the man and his terrible arrow:
The thought of it chills my bones to the marrow,
And the frost so cruel to-night!
And the frost so cruel to-night!'
'How is your trade, Aquarius,
This frosty night?'
'Complaints is many and various
And my feet are cold,' says Aquarius,
'There's Venus objects to Dolphin-scales,
And Mars to Crab-spawn found in my pails,
And the pump has frozen to-night,
And the pump has frozen to-night.'
poem by Robert Graves
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