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...MARIA CALLAS, THE WOMAN BEHIND THE LEGEND* by MADELINE DEFREES WE CAN'T WRITE OURSELVES INTO ETERNAL LIFE by DAVID IGNATOW TRANSPOSITIONS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE AWAKENING by EDGAR LEE MASTERS ELEGY ON MR. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE by WILLIAM BASSE THE HUMAN ABSTRACT, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE |