A Hunting Song

by Edith Wharton

　　Not in the half-oped breast,

　　Nor the young rose,

　　Nor April sunrise--those

　　With a quick wing she brushes,

　　The wide world through,

　　Greets with the throat of thrushes,

　　Fades from as fast as dew.

　　But, would you spy her sleeping,

　　Cradled warm,

　　Look in the breast of weeping,

　　The tree stript by storm;

　　But, would you bind her fast,

　　Yours at last,

　　Bed-mate and lover,

　　Gain the last headland bare

　　That the cold tides cover,

　　There may you capture her, there,

　　Where the sea gives to the ground

　　Only the drift of the drowned.

　　Yet, if she slips you, once found,

　　Push to her uttermost lair

　　In the low house of despair.

　　There will she watch by your head,

　　Sing to you till you be dead,

　　Then, with your child in her breast,

　　In another heart build a new nest.