Francis Frost
Will there come a day
when the fox, at bay,
may find man's shoulder
his shelter, his boulder?
When will the deer
stand without fear
while man's hand touches
his russet haunches?
When will the snare
return to air
the bright-winged captive
to praise God and live?
Saint Francis, when will
man cease to kill
the shy, and that other-
his shyer brother?
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