by Rebecca Dow

Vibrant eye of heaven’s shade
Silent calls from lofty high;
Where go tawny fawn this night?
Who paints birch so deeply wine?
Limping, back arched in her way
Accursed innocence doth cry,
Banished from her house and name
This trance is death, and young must die.

Little children, quick to bed,
Lest twilight sink to bluer hues
And every scent of tender breath
The lycanthrope detects of you.
Their pace is slow when terror floods,
Far less than bounding fawn doth go;
The does do weep for cloven babes,
And too shall mothers mourn this way
If lad or lass is left to play.