The moon drops low
C. Cadman
The moon drops low that once soared high
As an eagle soars in the morning sky;
And the deep dark lies like a death-web spun
'Twixt the setting moon and the rising sun.
Our glory sets like the sinking moon;
The Red Man's race shall be perished soon;
Our feet shall trip where the web is spun,
For no dawn shall be ours, and no rising sun.