Page:Dora Sigerson Shorter - New Poems.djvu/27



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.

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."

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.