Poem by Clinton Scollard

The Archer

When May has come, and all around
The dandelions dot the ground,
Then out into the woods I go,
And take my arrows and my bow.

Of hickory my bow is made,
Deep in a darksome forest glade
Cut from a sapling slim and tall,
And feathered are my arrows all.

And sometimes I am Robin Hood,
That olden archer brave and good;
And sometimes I'm an Indian sly,
Who waits to shoot the passers-by.

So up and down the woods I roam
Till sunset bids me hurry home
Before the pathway through the glen
Is peopled by the shadow-men.

And when at night my bow unstrung,
Is close beside my quiver hung,
To bed I slip and slumber well,
And dream that I am William Tell.

1. The Spectral Rowers
2. The Mist and the Sea
3. Night by the Sea
4. Dawn in the Desert
5. Muckross

Print

1331 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version