The Pointed People

I don't know who they are,

But when it's shadow time

In woods where the trees crowd close,

With bristly branches crossed,

From their secret hiding places

I have seen the Pointed People

Gliding through brush and bracken.

Maybe a peaked cap

Pricking out through the leaves,

Or a tiny pointed ear

Up-cocked, all brown and furry,

From ferns and berry brambles,

Or a pointed hoof's sharp print

Deep in the tufted moss,

And once a pointed face

That peered between the cedars,

Blinking bright eyes at me

And shaking with silent laughter.