DARK is her cheek, but her blood?s rich blush 
Comes through its dusk with a sunset flush, 
While joy, like a prairie-bee, slaketh its drouth 
At the red honey-cup of her smiling mouth, 
And her wild eyes glow, like meteors, there 
?Neath the streaming storm of her night-black hair. 
And ever I pride in my forest choice, 
The more while I list to her bird-like voice, 
Warbling old songs in her own wild speech, 
But with this new burden still added to each; 
?Who?ll pity, who?ll comfort the dark wood-dove 
When the white hawk leaves her to die of love? 

O then, by the artless tears that rise 
?Neath the downcast lids of her gleaming eyes? 
By the truthfully tender and touching grace 
That boding passion then lends to her face? 
I swear, in the very wild spirit of love, 
Never to leave her, my Indian dove!