At timbers edge where it curtains a hill
In the loamy shadows there something lay still
The tiny body of a sparrowhawk

Among the decay of last years leaves
Below its hunting ground the trees
The broken body of a sparrowhawk

Its barred breast ruffled by the breeze
And curve of wing to speed with ease
Terror of the thrush – the sparrowhawk

And here she was all life departed
So I buried her like a broken hearted
Sweetheart to the sparrowhawk

In the elm above her I carved a name
So men should see it if this way they came
And the name I chose was yours my love