The Hunter

" Why wilt thou take my heart? It fawnlike flies,
'Frighted at clarion of thy hunting cries,
And shrinks benumbed beneath thy jealous eyes.

" Shun these green solitudes, these paths and vales
Where winds the grasses tell their faint-sung tales
Of distant Ocean's secret nightingales;

" Of frail foam-bubbles, spun of light and air,
From glass wherein sirens braid their sun-gilt hair,
Watching their round mouths chaunt a dying air. . . .

" O arrows, pierce me not! O horns, be still!
Sweet God, divine compassion have: or kill! "
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