Boy Hunting

His rifle gleams in autumn day;
The falcon in him doffs the hood,
A golden bolt with eyes of blood
Stares round upon the groves for prey.

Treading deftly as dancers tread,
Barely stirring the papery drifts,
Lovely and merciless, he lifts
The clean attention of his head.

Squirrel, be quiet on your bough,
Plume snuggled warm above your back;
Deer, take to water, leave no track;
Incarnate Death is passing now

In a dawn-cheeked boy with noon-clear eye,
His heart unsoftened and unworn,
Who would not mind your blood, nor mourn
Your wound, nor grieve to watch you die.