On A Hill By The Mississippi Where Chippewas Camped Two Generations Ago,
A Girl Stood In Relief Against The Cornflower Blue Of Northern Sky.
She Saw No Indians Now; She Saw Flour-Mills And The Blinking Windows Of
Skyscrapers In Minneapolis And St. Paul. Nor Was She Thinking Of Squaws
And Portages, And The Yankee Fur-Traders Whose Shadows Were All About
Her. She Was Meditating Upon Walnut Fudge, The Plays Of Brieux, The
Reasons Why Heels Run Over, And The Fact That The Chemistry Instructor
Had Stared At The New Coiffure Which Concealed Her Ears.
