When meadow-mists begin to rise
And sleep is still in childrens eyes
A stirring in the brush is heard
As of a foraging small bird
Or mouse. But then a glimpse of white
Betrays a seldom witnessed sight:
A pale blue gaze, a spiraled horn;
Behold: it is the Unicorn,
That rarest and most mystic beast
of all that wandered from the East.
But then before we turn around
He vanishes without a sound
And all that we have left for proof's
The print of one small cloven hoof.
| I wrote that one at the request of Dudley Carson back around 1980. He wanted a poem to go with a drawing of a unicorn that he was working on. He liked it, but said it was too long for the card, so I did this one and he used it:
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