The Camp of Souls

My white canoe, like the silvery air
 O'er the River of Death that darkly rolls
 When the moons of the world are round and fair
 I paddle back from the Camp of Souls
 When the wishtonwish in the low swamp grieves
 Come the dark plumes of the red singing leaves
 Two hundred times have the moons of spring
 Rolled over the bright bay's azure breath
 Since they decked me with plumes of an eagle's wing
 And painted my face with the paint of death
 The camp of souls
 The camp of souls
 And from thy pipe o'er my corpse there broke
 The solemn rings of the blue last smoke
 Two hundred times have the wintry moons
 Wrapped the dead earth in a blanket white
 Two hundred times have the wild sky loons
 Shrieked in the flush of the golden light
 The camp of souls
 The camp of souls
 They chanted above me the song of grief
 As I took my way to the spirit land
 For love is the breath of the soul set free
 So I walk a river that darkly rolls
 That my spirit may whisper soft to thee
 Of thine who wait in the Camp of Souls
 When the bright day laughs, or the wan night grieves
 Come the dark plumes of red singing leaves