Mathilde Blind

The Hunter's Moon

    The Hunter's Moon rides high,
      High o'er the close-cropped plain;
    Across the desert sky
      The herded clouds amain
    Scamper tumultuously,
        Chased by the hounding wind
        That yelps behind.

    The clamorous hunt is done,
      Warm-housed the kennelled pack;
    One huntsman rides alone
      With dangling bridle slack;
    He wakes a hollow tone,
        Far echoing to his horn
        In clefts forlorn.

    The Hunter's Moon rides low,
      Her course is nearly sped.
    Where is the panting roe?
      Where hath the wild deer fled?
    Hunter and hunted now
        Lie in oblivion deep:
        Dead or asleep.