THE hunters, Epicydes, go Among the hills in frost and snow, And follow every hare, and mind Keenly the slot of every hind; But if they're told 'That beast is hit; Look! lying there', they'll none of it. And so my love is; for it gives Incessant chase to fugitives, But hurries heedless past the prize That ready for the taking lies. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 12. A RENUNCIATION by THOMAS CAMPION THE COMET AT YELL'HAM by THOMAS HARDY ONE'S-SELF I SING by WALT WHITMAN THE ANGEL OF PATIENCE by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER A HYMN OF TOUCH by GORDON BOTTOMLEY FOUR SONGS BY WAY OF CHORUS TO A PLAY: 1. OF JEALOUSY. A DIALOGUE by THOMAS CAREW |