Weasel Thieves

by



               The weasel thieves in silver suit,
               The rabbit runs in gray,
               And Pan takes up his frosty flute
               To pipe the cold away.
               The flocks are folded, boughs are bare,
               The salmon takes the sea;
               And oh, my fair, would I somewhere
               Might house my heart with thee.


8.5

facebook share button twitter share button reddit share button share on pinterest pinterest


Add Weasel Thieves to your library.

Return to the Jack London library , or . . . Read the next poem; Where The Rainbow Fell

© 2022 AmericanLiterature.com