to a wild rabbit prince of the fields

words are mine

no words take from his eyes

the breeze blown beauty of the woodlands

nor the silver scented sight of evening glories

 

manhood mine

a prince of the fields is he

even in the terror of flight

a strange high ecstacy spirits his delight

 

age is mine

he will not grow old

nor fear the passing of his world

the lure of yellow gold

the bitterness of friends becoming foes