I see a dear,
it passes by;
down the road
I know not why.
Some may see it
as a prize;
to shoot and end,
but are they wise?
While others see
but a gentle beast;
not food for them,
not for their feast.
He's like a man
who in a rhyme,
has come to walk
and pass his time.
So some feel love
as he walks on by
and others hate
as they sorrow and sigh.
One calls out,
he cannot hear
and if he could,
he'd bolt in fear.
But I?
I just sit,
and think, and cry,
and saddly watch
as a dear goes by.
