Dark, dark, dark your eyes, and proud your head.
My father wishes you were dead,
But I saw you once while out hunting the deer,
And I will never lure you here.
When I stopped for a drink from the crystal stream
I saw -- reflection of a dream--
Your delicate form, more lovely far than song.
When I looked up then you were gone.
I wish your mane was not so white.
I wish your horn did not shine bright.
For I greatly fear what my father means to do.
And ev'ry night I dream of you.
Dark, dark, dark, the eyes I saw in the stream
But he saw only money sheen.
A unicorn's horn must command a princely sum.
Yet still I will not bid you come.
For I'm lost in the darkness of your eyes.
Copyright © 1997 Michelle Bottorff