The Archer

 

By Clinton Scollard

Artist OLIVIA BEAUMONT

When May has come, and all around

The dandelions dot the ground,

Then out into the woods I go,

And take my arrows and my bow.

Of hickory my bow is made,

Deep in a darksome forest glade

Cut from a sapling slim and tall,

And feathered are my arrows all.

And sometimes I am Robin Hood,

That olden archer brave and good;

And sometimes I'm an Indian sly,

Who waits to shoot the passers-by.

So up and down the woods I roam

Till sunset bids me hurry home

Before the pathway through the glen

Is peopled by the shadow-men.

And when at night my bow unstrung,

Is close beside my quiver hung,

To bed I slip and slumber well,

And dream that I am William Tell.