Seeing Too Much

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Seeing Too Much

[Suggested by a legend of the "Gens du lacs," a tribe of central Alaskan Indians. These people are generally known as the "Chandclar," and a river about the headwaters of which they live has been given that name. This is, however, but a corruption of "Gens du lacs," a name long ago accepted from the "Couriers de bois," who termed them this from the nature of their country. They migrate to the great Yukon flats in June for the salmon fishing and to secure water-fowl and their eggs. The Author.]

Yearning to know the secrets of the world, Infatuate, I prayed the God of light To give me eyes like eagles, that I might see The things escaping merely human sight; Keen eyes, to pierce beneath her shrouding robes And see the awful, naked truth beneath; And he, in anger, granted what I asked And I am cursed until my dying breath.

Of old. I, floating on the river wide, Saw the strong currents tug the tender banks; Beneath the midnight sun watched myriad gulls Wheeling about their nests in raucous ranks; Saw the light dance upon the water bright; Felt the resistless rolling to the sea; Wondered what beauties lay beneath these charms, Enthralled, enamored of the mystery.

Now, from the bank, beneath the turbid flow, I see the ruddy salmon hurrying on, And idle whitefish in the eddy's swirl; See sand and ooze beneath, and, laid thereon, See dead men's bones, and slimy things about; And eager, stretching, grasping, demon hands, Ready to grip their victim by the throat And drag them down to those sub-aqueous lands.

Over the water is an island, green With pointed spruce, and there, beside her fire. Sits dreaming, Anak, my soft-breasted maid, My love, my life, my burning, heart's desire. Her soul cries to me over the wide stream My soul cries to her from my distant shore: But I must turn my head and hide my eyes, And take my way from her for ever more.

Should I draw near to look upon her face, Beneath her smiling mask a skull would grin, And on her soul my cursed eyes would see Each tiny blemish like a mortal sin, And love be dead: and love of her is life! I will not look. God of light, be kind! Leave me my love, and take away my sight. O God of light, in mercy strike me blind! T. McClure Peters.