Good-bye to you, my buck of red fox hide, <br />The autumn wars have taken yet another, <br />I marvel at the naked bones of pride <br />That say you made good hunting, O, my brother. <br /> <br />There are no songs for we of antlered tongue <br />Except the wind-horn and its lonely blowing. <br />A strangely austere sound for one so young, <br />But you shall have white blankets at its going. <br /> <br />Salute you deer that pass with icy breath. <br />Though you will never run as stags together. <br />The great intangible that men call death <br />Has come to one of us with woodsmoke weather.<br /><br />Sandra Fowler<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-great-intangible/
