And so is the bare, the springy foot
Of a hunter tall and dark.
“My deer-eyed dove,” the hunter breathed—
And the maid fell at his knee:
Along its lash a bright tear flashed,
And thus again spake he.
“My dark-eyed dove, the twisted shells,
With tints of the blood-red snow,
I’ve brought thee now, and scarlet bird,
And skin of the spotted doe.”