Stolid he sits before his wigwam door

Gazing with narrowed eyes at smoldering fire.

He sees the cool dawns, and the hushed woods

He has known; the hunts he'll ride no more;

The dance around the leaping flames

In panoply of war; and he remembers

Battles, and hardships, and the games.

But all is gone. Old age is come.

A thin blue spiral from the fire

Curls slowly in the cool of dusk.

Beyond the hills he hears the throbbing of a drum.