Coil-padded, every thew a close-wound spring, Geared to a dynamo fed by the moon, He lopes, a tireless gait: a hurrying, Fear-stricken brute, alien to the high noon. Unpausing, the lean flanks pulse like a clock, A facing, turning, facing, never still; A prisoner, he raids a foothill flock, He hears a fat sheep bleating in the kill. The bars that keep him cannot keep his flight, He must be friendless, pactless, shareless, strange, And hurtle, frothed and hot, into the night, Shrilling the pack call from black ridge to range. No lock, no mesh of twisted, woven wire Can hold this streak of lunging, plunging fire. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BEAUTY THAT IS NEVER OLD by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON TO HORACE BUMSTEAD by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON ESSAY: AT NIGHT THE AUTOPORTRAIT AT NIGHT by ELENI SIKELIANOS HIDE AND SEEK by SARA TEASDALE ISADORA DUNCAN DANCING 'IPHIGENIA IN AULIS' by LOUIS UNTERMEYER TO MARK ANTHONY IN HEAVEN by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS THE TURNSTILE by WILLIAM BARNES THE HUMAN ABSTRACT, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE |