type of poem

so lost
passing through huddled and ugly walls
she must go back, she said
a storm is riding on the tide
over the river, on the hill
i saw the clouds among the hills
which keeps
she might have known it in the earlier spring
all those treasures that lie
glooms of the live-oaks
if the red slayer think he slays
tell me less or tell me more
what do i owe to you