These, The Wings Of The Morning, An Indian Maiden Wove, Intertwining Subtilely Wands From A Willow Grove Beside The Sangamon - Rude Stream Of Dreamland Town. She Bound Them To My Shoulders With Fingers Golden-Brown. The Wings Were Part Of Me; The Willow-Wands Were Hot. Pulses From My Heart Healed Each Bruise And Spot Of The Morning-Glory Buds, Beginning To Unfold Beneath Her Burning Song Of Suns Untold.