090 - March 30 2024 - Lament of an Old Hunter

to every maid, in days days long past
who lay upon my bed
whom I lured in with lilting verse
and then ambrosia fed

each one, with coursing tears, I left
to hunt for other harts
for endless flew my arrow shafts
and true they slayed their marks

although these maids I made my prize
and mounted in delight
I find my quiver empty now
at twilight in my life

if once my words drew trance-like blinds
it’s magic I have lost
and where I stalked on summer grounds
I now exhale the frost

I wonder could they love me still
or have their lives progressed
to sanctuaries of content
no poetry can best