That of A Wild Thing

Swept the morn gentle rays.

Chill of stone, crisp cold, wooden house creek.

Gentle crash of soothing wave, seek home top misty sky.

O' that she prey 'pon early morn breeze.

Nay, hunt of dusk due past,

she shall see to no end, lest she return home with nought.

Hair whisp o'er brush painted grey.

Early morn be that when she stern, swift and keen.

Aye, don thee thy best mail and chain.

Lest thee no ken on travel you advance.

Pray thee, of night been,

her appetite be quenched.

Alas, befall thy-being to her grasp -

shall never again dawn touch thy weary skin.

Lo be her poise! Elegant, proud and true.

Come darkness, seeketh cover.

Untamed be her boiling blood and

for flesh longing fangs shall find.

Alas, be she of flesh akin to that of we.

Seeketh her that of freedom and love,

lo equal given, is seldom so.

Then be she of lonesome creature,

endless wander.

Of equal; fruitless seek.

Give time o' sweet wilding.

Thy time yet lingers beyond morrow sun and

seeketh thee as so.

Aye, be thy heart still, and frolic on spring dew grass.

For morn will come.