Vienna Historical Society
Preserving the History of Vienna and Mount Vernon, Maine




Submitted on May 6, 2008 by Audrey (Kelley) Smith." I received this poem from my father, H. Edwin Kelley Sr., on 08/31/1981."

By M. G. Demers

Should you ask me where I heard it,
Heard this story, this tradition,
I should answer, I should tell you,
That I heard it in September
When the birds were flying southward,
When the air was filled with sweetness.
“Flying Pond,” the people called it,
Nestled there among the mountains,
Guarded by the singing birches.

Mat-ta-non, the Indian, found it,
Hastened quick to bring his brother,
Sun-ka-wa, the tribal leader.
It had flown. They hunted fiercely,
Long they searched throughout the forest,
But the shining lake had vanished.

Years passed by but still he sought it,
Mat-ta-non, now tribal leader,
Came one day over a mountain,
Heard a laugh like rippling water,
Musical as birds in springtime.

Eagerly that sound he followed
Down the mountain through the forest,
And the laughter of an Indian Princess
Treading softly through the forest
Until she reached the sparkling water.
There he found her, waiting, laughing.
There they pledged their troth, and called it, - Iya-ye-he, the flying water.

When rose tints the far horizon,
When the morning mists are rising,
From the water and the bracken.
Laughing still, the Princess walks there
With her tawny Indian lover,
Pledging troth beside the water,
By the lovely Iya-ye-he,
By the lovely Sparkling Water.

                                                                             Flying Pond

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