The Day of Arrow

That slender and true wooden bullet,
Most would flee at its sight;
A feather or two are its companions
And a miniature knife makes its home
On that slender and deadly cylinder
Of pain; It is used in the hunt to find
And in thy most wars it is friend;
For sport it is made most handy
And needed; birds with it flies,
On thundering shores; hear it,
Hear it, makes little noise few
And quiet it likes; for silence purified!