Bare trees and shadows against a November sky.
by Helen Hunt Jackson
This is the treacherous month when autumn days
With summer’s voice come bearing summer’s gifts.
Beguiled, the pale down-trodden aster lifts
Her head and blooms again. The soft, warm haze
Makes moist once more the sere and dusty ways,
And, creeping through where dead leaves lie in drifts,
The violet returns. Snow noiseless sifts
Ere night, an icy shroud, which morning’s rays
Wildly shine upon and slowly melt,
Too late to bid the violet live again.
The treachery, at last, too late, is plain;
Bare are the places where the sweet flowers dwelt.
What joy sufficient hath November felt?
What profit from the violet’s day of pain?
Helen Hunt Jackson became a tireless advocate for aboriginals in North America after hearing Chief Standing Bear
speak in Boston, in 1879. She gave a voice to a people who had been lied to and duped repeatedly by the federal government of the United States. Estimates are that there were more than 200 treaties signed with the Native People and every single one of those treaties was violated or reneged on.
For anyone who would assert the childishly naïve notion that we should “trust the government”, I would respond thusly; Should we trust the federal government? Ask an American Indian.
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