Hunters Pet Poem by George Samuel

His final strides
Has taken a swipe at the potters pot
And bade fare ware to end his honey moon
Which stood at the last mode of may
And the hour running round and fast
The birds flying descending low
Streams flowing downward dry
Huge hound held and old with years
Hunt younger than his days of birth
But has eyes laid back with rest
Carrying those tears and fears in them
Closed firmly and never saw those numbers they cheer
Those they admire
Great hour house whole love
Staring at those faces around but again
Blinded with departing tears
Too blind to behold him sleep
Yet he did atlas against aught sleep