When the downward-dipping trails are dank and drear,

Comes a breathing hard behind thee — snuffle-snuffle

through the night —

It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!

On thy knees and draw the bow; bid the shrilling arrow go;

In the empty, mocking thicket plunge the spear;

But thy hands are loosed and weak, and the blood has left

thy cheek —

It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!

When the heat-cloud sucks the tempest, when the slivered

pine-trees fall,