Hell-freed, sent minister to save a soul,
A wild dove clove the luminous winds and there,
A wafted waif, pruned settled on a bough:
Then I, "Thy weapon, Rudolph, pierce its head!"
Cried pointing, "And chief-forester art thou!"
Pale as a mist and wavering he turned;
"I had a dream—" then faltered as he aimed,
"A woman's whim!" But starting from the press
Screamed Ilsabe, "My dove!" to plead its life
Came—cracked the rifle and untouched the dove