Classic Poem

The furrows of the unicorn are crooked,
They straggle anyhow
Where the frail beast has plunged in the loam's blackness
Bound to the plow,
Striving and struggling on with sides bemired
And silver horned brow.

The furrows of the unicorn are crooked,
Ragged as pain,
His life in arrased forests teaches nothing
Of bit and rein,
And where his hoofs have staggered down the meadow
Springs blood-red grain.