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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