THE spirit is a spotless doe that haunts The vast, pure woods of God. Thro' her domain She feels the calm sweet days unsullied wane, And white dream-Dryads are her ministrants. And, thro' the flattered leaves the love-light slants, —Till suddenly shrieks her softly-slumbering pain. The hounds o' the flesh are on the trail again, And on, on, on, the sobbing quarry pants. Who is the Hunter that unleashed the pack? Was it a god's strange heart the sport designed? @3She@1 only knows He cannot call them back: That only to the flaming hour she flies When the last shameful agony shall blind The accusation of her hunted eyes. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...RELIGION by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR BEAVER BROOK by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL LAYS OF FRANCE: SONG (2) by MARIE DE FRANCE THE RUBAIYAT, 1879 EDITION: 48 by OMAR KHAYYAM GIVE ME THY HEART by ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER SUPER FLUMINA BABYLONIS by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE AN IRISH AIRMAN FORESEES HIS DEATH by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS COMMENDATORY VERSES TO MASSINGER'S PLAY, 'THE BONDMAN' by WILLIAM BASSE |