Anthology of Magazine Verse for 1921/Diana

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DIANA
I am always carving arrows
 Or polishing my bow,
Yet why I care for hunting
 I do not seem to know.

For they are long and lonely,
 The ways of wood and hill,
And it is wearisome to seek,
 And sorrowful to kill,

But I am always hoping,
 I shall carry home some prize,
Like a white-feathered squirrel,
 Or a fawn with blue eyes.

The MeasureWinifred Welles

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