Hunter's Moon

Where are you, mighty hunter? Your golden moon is high, And the leaves like little harlequins go lightly blowing by As though to keep a rendezvous with joy, before they die.

Where are you, O young hunter, now that the woods are still? You who so loved the long pursuit—the following, not the kill— You who would take the dangerous trail wishing no creature ill.

Unknown and silent hunter—you heed but one white creed, To play the game in fairness;—to take but for a need, To leave no bird with broken wing to die by sedge or reed.

Yet death you dealt and swiftly, on upland and on low;— You sent the blind wolf into rest—you stilled the wounded doe, And for the broken red fox, you made an end of woe.

Not of your setting were the snares from which you gave release;— You sprang the trap at day dawn and gave the brown bear peace— To maddened beasts in agony, you brought a long surcease.

O strange and mighty hunter—again the wild geese fly,— Upon the scented forest-floor, the new pine-needles lie. Where are you—O where are you—? The hunter's moon is high!