The red squaw staid all the forenoon, and toward the middle of the afternoon she went away, O my mother was loth to have her go away, All the week she thought of her, she watch’d for her many a month, She remember’d her many a winter and many a summer, But the red squaw never came nor was heard of there again. 7 A show of the summer softness--a contact of something unseen--an amour of the light and air, I am jealous and overwhelm’d with friendliness, And will go gallivant with the light and air myself. O love and summer, you are in the dreams and in me, Autumn and winter are in the dreams, the farmer goes with his thrift, The droves and crops increase, the barns are well-fill’d. Elements merge in the night, ships make tacks in the dreams, The sailor sails, the exile returns home, The fugitive returns unharm’d, the immigrant is back beyond months and years, The poor Irishman lives in the simple house of his childhood with the well known neighbors and faces, They warmly welcome him, he is barefoot again, he forgets he is well off, The Dutchman voyages home, and the Scotchman and Welshman voyage home, and the native of the Mediterranean voyages home, To every port of England, France, Spain, enter well-fill’d ships, The Swiss foots it toward his hills, the Prussian goes his way, the Hungarian his way, and the Pole his way, The Swede returns, and the Dane and Norwegian return. The homeward bound and the outward bound, The beautiful lost swimmer, the ennuye, the onanist, the female that loves unrequited, the money-maker, The actor and actress, those through with their parts and those waiting to commence, The affectionate boy, the husband and wife, the voter, the nominee that is chosen and the nominee that has fail’d, The great already known and the great any time after to-day, The stammerer, the sick, the perfect-form’d, the homely, The criminal that stood in the box, the judge that sat and sentenced him, the fluent lawyers, the jury, the audience, The laugher and weeper, the dancer, the midnight widow, the red squaw, The consumptive, the erysipalite, the idiot, he that is wrong’d, The antipodes, and every one between this and them in the dark, I swear they are averaged now--one is no better than the other, The night and sleep have liken’d them and restored them. I swear they are all beautiful, Every one that sleeps is beautiful, every thing in the dim light is beautiful, The wildest and bloodiest is over, and all is peace. Peace is always beautiful, The myth of heaven indicates peace and night.