The Dark eye has left us,
     The Spring-bird has flown;
On the pathway of spirits
     She wanders alone.
The song of the wood-dove has died on our shore:
     Mat wonck kunna-monee! We hear it no more!

O dark water Spirit!
     We cast on thy wave
These furs which may never
     Hang over her grave;
Bear down to the lost one the robes that she wore:
     Mat wonck kunna-monee! We see her no more!

Of the strange land she walks in
     No Powah has told:
It may burn with the sunshine,
     Or freeze with the cold.
Let us give to our lost one the robes that she wore:
     Mat wonck kunna-monee! We see her no more!

The path she is treading
     Shall soon be our own;
Each gliding in shadow
     Unseen and alone!
In vain shall we call on the souls gone before:
     Mat wonck kunna-monee! They hear us no more!

O mighty Sowanna!
     Thy gateways unfold,
From thy wigwam of sunset
     Lift curtains of gold!
Take home the poor Spirit whose journey is o'er:
     Mat wonck kunna-monee! We see her no more!

So sang the Children of the Leaves beside
     The broad, dark river's coldly flowing tide;
Now low, now harsh, with sob-like pause and swell,
     On the high wind their voices rose and fell.
Nature's wild music, -- sounds of wind-swept trees,
     The scream of birds, the wailing of the breeze,
The roar of waters, steady, deep, and strong, --
     Mingled and murmured in that farewell song.