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 rocks
           are ribbed with light,
       When the downward-dipping trails are dank and drear,
     Comes a breathing hard behind thee—snuffle-snuffle
           through 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 left
           thy cheek—
       It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!

     When the heat-cloud sucks the tempest, when the slivered
           pine-trees fall,
       When the blinding, blaring rain-squalls lash and veer;
     Through the war-gongs of the thunder rings a voice more
           loud than all—
       It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!

     Now the spates are banked and deep; now the footless
           boulders leap—
       Now the lightning shows each littlest leaf-rib clear—
     But thy throat is shut and dried, and thy heart against
           thy side
       Hammers: Fear, O Little Hunter—this is Fear!