The tangled wood was full of sound

the forest screamed, the forest groaned

with fear

to see the spear-man beast his spear.

Why does hart’s horn hang heavy

with the moving mark of love?

Arrow’s flash of metal hits a haunch,

and reckons right. Now beast is broken

to his knees, beaten to the ground.

His eyes look deep at death.

The horses clatter, snort, and chatter:

“We bring the Tall Ones. Useless to run.”

Useless only your exquisite motion,

your almost feminine face. No action

can save you. You fly from rack and ruin,

and searching spear-man follows fast.

Panting horses always closer,

branching antlers always lower,

twangling bowstrings over and over,

nor help nor hart from hurt and hazard.

But he rears abruptly, bristles, roars—

and shows a lion’s cruel claws.

With lazy ease he touches, teases—

teaches the trick of terror.

Acquiescent and still,

they fall to fill their graves.

He rises rampant. Regal roar.

And around him everywhere lay beaten slaves.