--George Crabbe
 unicorn, milk-white, amid the furze,
Harried by discombobulating curs.
You hunt the unicorn with horns and hounds,
The way you hunt the hart or hunt the fox,
Along the pines that mark the forest's bounds
To where the river falls between the rocks:
There, at the furthest corner of your grounds,
Near certain neolithic burial mounds,
You net him in a web of soundless sounds
And shut his spirit in an iron box,
Shut up his spirit in an iron box
And bind the box with seven chains of steel
And chain the chains with seven silver locks
And lock the locks with seven golden keys
And hang the keys upon a crystal wheel
And hide the wheel among the river rocks
And tell your secret to the stuttering breeze,
And turn and take whichever path you please
That forks and fades and disappears beneath the tallest trees.
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