The Horns of Hunters
High on moon-kissed mountains mournful cold,
The Horns of Hunters’ daubed rouge,
Bring sweeping pestilence
On this fatuous and sated land.
Aye, upon this sweet and sour plate,
A greyer grain of grief will reign,
Until at last a battered Teacher creeps,
And to the withered monochrome, shades
The first few drops of pastoral rain.
