From the cold huntress shorn of any veil

Bare trees, the target of her silver spite,

Down the long avenue in staggy flight

Are hunted by the hungers of the gale:

Along the cold grey torrent of the sky

Where branch the fatal trophies of his brows,

Actæon, antlered in the wintry boughs,

Rears to the stars his mastiff-throttled cry.

Pride has avenging arrows for the eyes

That strip her beauty silver of disguise,

And she has dogs before whose pace to flee—

In front a waste, behind a bended bow,

And a long race across the stony Crau

Torn in each gust, and slain in every tree.