I wonder and worship the human spirit When I behold Numbers and symbols, and how they reach Through steel and gold; A harp, a battle-ship, thought and speech, And an hour foretold. It ponders its nature to turn and teach, And itself to mould. The human spirit is God, no doubt, Is flesh made the word: Jesus, Beethoven and Raphael, And the souls who heard Beyond the rim of the world the swell Of an ocean stirred By a Power on the waters inscrutable. There are souls who gird Their loins in faith that the world is well, In a faith unblurred. How beautiful is the human spirit-- The flesh made the word! BLACK EAGLE RETURNS TO ST. JOE This way and that way measuring, Sighting from tree to tree, And from the bend of the river. This must be the place where Black Eagle Twelve hundred moons ago Stood with folded arms, While a Pottawatomie father Plunged a knife in his heart, For the murder of a son. Black Eagle stood with folded arms, Slim, erect, firm, unafraid, Looking into the distance, across the river. Then the knife flashed, Then the knife crashed through his ribs And into his heart. And like a wounded eagle's wings His arms fell, slowly unfolding, And he sank to death without a groan! And my name is Black Eagle too. And I am of the spirit, And perhaps of the blood Of that Black Eagle of old. I am naked and alone, But very happy; Being rich in spirit and in memories. I am very strong. I am very proud, Brave, revengeful, passionate. No longer deceived, keen of eye, Wise in the ways of the tribes: A knower of winds, mists, rains, snows, changes. A knower of balsams, simples, blossoms, grains. A knower of poisonous leaves, deadly fungus, herries. A knower of harmless snakes, And the livid copperhead. Lastly a knower of the spirits, For there are many spirits: Spirits of hidden lakes, And of pine forests. Spirits of the dunes, And of forested valleys. Spirits of rivers, mountains, fields, And great distances. There are many spirits Under the Great Spirit. Him I know not. Him I only feel With closed eyes. Or when I look from my bed of moss by the river At a sky of stars, When the leaves of the oak are asleep. I will fill this birch bark full of writing And hide it in the cleft of an oak, Here where Black Eagle fell. Decipher my story who can: