 | New Poems: Dora Sigerson Shorter |  |
17
THE POISONED ARROW
All wounded sore he lay upon my path,
His piteous moans his woeful need confessed;
I stooped to find his hurt with searching hand—
A poisoned arrow pierced his panting breast.
His piteous moans his woeful need confessed;
I stooped to find his hurt with searching hand—
A poisoned arrow pierced his panting breast.
He had a friend who dwelt beside the way,
And, running swift, I called to him for aid:
“Your comrade lies all wounded to his death;
Some secret foe a havoc here has made.”
And, running swift, I called to him for aid:
“Your comrade lies all wounded to his death;
Some secret foe a havoc here has made.”
Deaf to my call, I saw him crouch and creep,
Screened in a laurel's shade, the leaves among
He moved to pry and peer and pry again—
Within his hand he held a bow unstrung.
Screened in a laurel's shade, the leaves among
He moved to pry and peer and pry again—
Within his hand he held a bow unstrung.
| New Poems: Dora Sigerson Shorter | |