The Song of the Little Hunter
Ere Mor the Peacock flutters, ere the Monkey People cry,Ere Chil the Kite swoops down a furlong sheer,Through the Jungle very softly flits a shadow and a sigh—He is Fear, O Little Hunter, he is Fear!
Very softly down the glade runs a waiting, watching shade,And the whisper spreads and widens far and near;And the sweat is on thy brow, for he passes even now—He is Fear, O Little Hunter, he is Fear!
Ere the moon has climbed the mountain, ere the rocksare ribbed with light,When the downward-dipping trails are dank and drear,Comes a breathing hard behind thee—snuffle-snufflethrough the night—It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!
On thy knees and draw the bow; bid the shrilling arrow go;In the empty, mocking thicket plunge the spear;But thy hands are loosed and weak, and the blood has leftthy cheek—It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!
When the heat-cloud sucks the tempest, when the sliveredpine-trees fall,When the blinding, blaring rain-squalls lash and veer;Through the war-gongs of the thunder rings a voice moreloud than all—It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!
Now the spates are banked and deep; now the footlessboulders leap—Now the lightning shows each littlest leaf-rib clear—But thy throat is shut and dried, and thy heart againstthy sideHammers: Fear, O Little Hunter—this is Fear!