A Song of a Navajo Weaver

For ages long, my people have been

     Dwellers in this land;

For ages viewed these mountains,

     Loved these mesas and these sands,

That stretch afar and glisten,

     Glimmering in the sun

As it lights the mighty canons

     Ere the weary day is done.

Shall I, a patient dweller in this

     Land of fair blue skies,

Tell something of their story while

     My shuttle swiftly flies?

As I weave I’ll trace their journey,

     Devious, rough and wandering,

Ere they reached the silent region

     Where the night stars seem to sing.

When the myriads of them glitter

     Over peak and desert waste,

Crossing which the silent runner and

     The gaunt of co-yo-tees haste.

Shall I weave the zig-zag pathway

     Whence the sacred fire was born;

And interweave the symbol of the God

     Who brought the corn—

Of the Rain-god whose fierce anger

     Was appeased by sacred meal,

And the trust that my brave people

     In him evermore shall feel?

All this perhaps I might weave

     As the woof goes to and fro,

Wafting as my shuttle passes,

     Humble hopes, and joys and care,

Weaving closely, weaving slowly,

     While I watch the pattern grow;

Showing something of my life:

     To the Spirit God a prayer.

Grateful that he brought my people

     To the land of silence vast

Taught them arts of peace and ended

     All their wanderings of the past.

Deftly now I trace the figures,

     This of joy and that of woe;

And I leave an open gate-way

     For the Dau to come and go.