Sunday, 31 January 2010

The Day of Arrow

That slender and true wooden bullet,
Most would flee at its sight;
A feather or two are its companions,
And a miniature knife makes its home,
On that slender and deadly cylinder,
Of pain; It is used in the hunt to find,
And in thy most wars it is friend;
For sport it is made most handy,
And needed; birds with it flies,
On thundering shores; hear it,
Hear it, makes little noise few,
And quiet it likes; for silence purified!

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