The hunter of huntsmen bred,
That looked on his quarry slain,
The lament of quarry made:
“Would you had your beauty again!
Light and careless its part,
Stepping on velvet feet.
It is heavy in my heart.
“A gold and white decoy all night in sleep
I set lest any rove;
Snares I planted subtle and deep;
It was not guile, but love.
The gentle entered without fright
And bent upon the hunter’s look
Their eyes of delicate light.
“Of my mother’s father I got a proud steed,
And a barb of my father Ï took—
O cunning barb by which you bleed;
But a white hind gave me suck.
Eor I was cradled in hardihood,
But a mild doe, but the hind, pity,
With strangeness thinned my blood.
“Elerce and beauteous the hawk,
But where is the natureless creature,
That has confusion to his part?
To the greyhound his feetness,
To the moorhen her lightness,
And the waste print of beauty to the heart.”
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