From wilderness remote he breaks
With stealthy springing tread;
The little town a moment takes
A glimpse of times long dead.
He scorns to see the things we own
But sullen stares beyond,
Alone, impassive, cold, unknown;
With us he feels no bond.
One moment flocking with a stare
To see the red man pass,
The townsfolk feel the street’s hot glare
And dream of springs and grass.
They see a breathless, dusty town
They had not known before;
The red man in his robes is gone,
The townsfolk toil once more.
And whence he came, and whither fled,
And why, is all unknown;
His ways are strange, his skin is red,
Our ways and skins our own.
(Frank James Prewett)