My white canoe, like the silvery air
O'er the River of Death that darkly rolls
When the moons of the world are round and fair
I paddle back from the Camp of Souls
When the wishtonwish in the low swamp grieves
Come the dark plumes of the red singing leaves

Two hundred times have the moons of spring
Rolled over the bright bay's azure breath
Since they decked me with plumes of an eagle's wing
And painted my face with the paint of death

The camp of souls
The camp of souls

And from thy pipe o'er my corpse there broke
The solemn rings of the blue last smoke

Two hundred times have the wintry moons
Wrapped the dead earth in a blanket white
Two hundred times have the wild sky loons
Shrieked in the flush of the golden light

The camp of souls
The camp of souls

They chanted above me the song of grief
As I took my way to the spirit land

For love is the breath of the soul set free
So I walk a river that darkly rolls
That my spirit may whisper soft to thee
Of thine who wait in the Camp of Souls
When the bright day laughs, or the wan night grieves
Come the dark plumes of red singing leaves