Poetry

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The Hunter laid his bow atop the golden tie-string sack,
And tho summer heat was waning it still bristled at his back,
Lighting pipe in hand he felt the calm that is alone,
Little Dancer whispered he tossing boots to yonder stone.

He sung and swayed most handsomely with harp a mellow tune,
A song when all the years were good and ripe with merry boon,
But wondered he now struggling with pain that wouldn't die,
Little Dancer whispered he falling to his knees to cry.

But soon a warmth did ease his soul below that forest shade,
A fragile shape aglow with light did hover 'bove the glade,
He wiped his eyes with hurried pace what trickery is nigh?
Little Dancer whispered he gazing at the form so high.

It whirled and twirled amidst the trees in graceful serenade,
The most wondrous gleam of crystal stars nature had ever made,
And now convinced the Hunter wondered why it could ever be,
Little Dancer whispered he had saved her last ballet for me.

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