The third in my series of semi-found poems derived from The King of Elfland's Daughter, by Lord Dunsany.
Forth from the unicorn issued a groaning, A sound low and awful, as never is heard in the fields that we know. Then there was naught but the wonderful carcass, The deep growls and roaring of hounds as they wallowed in fabulous blood. Curséd be unicorns, all of their ways, And everything else in the world that be magic. Curst be their horn and the place where they dwell And the lilies they feed on. Curst be their speed, And their hide in white sleekness, their beauty -- And all things enchanted that wander by magical streams.