John Bliven Morin
The Last Unicorn
Near the cave where he was born
sat the very last unicorn,
having neither mate nor friend;
sitting, waiting for the end.
Unicorns once filled the Earth
with beauty, grace and selfless worth,
but then machinery ruled the land;
cold and soulless, every brand.
Mortals struggled day by day
with machines to earn their pay,
keeping track of all their hours;
never stopped to see the flowers
Polluting water, land and air
until there were too few to care,
fighting, warring with each other,
forgetting every man's a brother.
Till some madman, without qualm,
created the most massive bomb;
the next war was horrible and vast,
and few survived the awful blast.
Aeons passed, and nature healed;
within a forest was concealed
the last man on the planet Earth;
his mother died soon after birth.
Walking along a wooded path,
seeking a warm pool for his bath;
bathing in the deep blue waters
with neither wife nor sons or daughters.
Sitting there in all dejection,
gazing down at his reflection,
sighing to himself, forlorn,
'I am the last unicorn.'
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Comments about this poem (The Last Unicorn by John Bliven Morin )
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(16 September 1880 – 25 June 1958)
Rainer Maria Rilke
(4 December 1875 – 29 December 1926)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
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