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To the staccato of the booming drum,
To the dance-step of the moccasined feet,
And swaying of brown bodies,
They sang.


Said the very old man at the drum:
It is a homesick song--
Of lonesome deserts,
Of grinding corn,
Of a roof overhead,
The love of woman;
And of the Path to the Sunset,
Where we go tomorrow.


Ah! then I knew;
Knew why it sang to my heart.