He Steps from His Worn Moccasins
The Red Man slowly, surely has been shoved
Until he stands in sorrow on the edge
Of vast primeval prairies he has loved ...
Must he relinquish all his heritage?
He stands uncertain, stoic, stubborn-proud--
Does this mean death? Then comes a burst of light:
New grasslands yet to roam! Gone is the shroud!
For reaching out, in love, are arms of white.
How haltingly he takes the outstretched hands
How slow he plods through unknown tracts of mind
And climbs the culture trails ... then understands
That he is part of one great humankind.
He steps from his worn moccasins and hears
The song of progress-music to his ears.