Consider thou the first crude rune
Lain in clay for magic's boon,
On hidden smoky cavern's wall,
By hunter-mage, his prey to fall,
Chanting drawn with first crude tune.

While hunter-mage has turned to dust,
His runes still hold his will and trust
Unseen while countless ages pass.
What spirit-beast upon the grass
Still heeds that ancient rousing thrust?

For skills of old still hold their thrall
Though mastodons no longer call
Atop the hill with cave below,
Untouched by wind or rain or snow
Upon that smoke-marked cavern wall.

But great the magicks chanted there,
Born of hunger and charmed by prayer!
Oh, think ye not that days of old
Lacked the force of magicks bold -
That first crude rune was magick fair!