Poems about hunt
That Hunted For The Act
joy to have perished every step
that hunted for the day
presents it in the act
the likest i have known
Now We Hunt The Single Doe
lest he pursue
that "whatsoever ye shall ask
and yet, unto the single doe
and now we hunt the doe
the hillsides must not know it
what parallel can be
Far Off The Face Of Trees,
a moment sought in air his flower of rest,
beyond the shadow of a doubt;
so inconsolably in the face of love,
the stricken flower bent double and so hung,
salmon and sturgeon, lashing with their tails,
far off the homes of men, and farther still,
the light of heaven falls whole and white
of things of moment to which, they wist,
before he came to the land of spain,
all simply in the springing of the year,
not of woods only and the shade of trees,
and the world had found new terms of worth,
bring the singer, bring the nester;
the work of hunters is another thing,
in the shape of a man,
He Looked For From His Thought,
and with his eyes he asked her not to ask,
or anything he looked for from his brother,
he sees days slipping from him that were the best for what they
he stood there bringing march against his thought,
the sound was behind me instead of before,
so small the window frames the whole of it,
what but design of darkness and of night?
the work of hunters is another thing,
is what to make of a diminished thing,
and thought of doing something to the shore
that and the merest curl of cigarette smoke�
and signifies the sureness of the soul,
Where No Human Race Is,
between stars - on stars where no human race is,
with which the modern world is being swept,
the work of hunters is another thing,
but the wind out of doors�you know the saying,
and where they sought without the sword
the hard snow held me, save where now and then
and to the forest edge you came one day
neither refused the meeting, but the hand!
to see for once the inside of his house,
and still the bird revisited her young,
How Over, Though, For Even Me Who Is
i wish i could promise to lie in the night
i thought, who is that man? i didn't know you,
and half grant what i wish and snatch me away
they you wouldn't have looked on it as just a matter
when it seemed as if i could bear no more,
how over, though, for even me who knew
or so the story goes, it was some girl,
he is that fallen lance that lies as hurled,
the work of hunters is another thing,
the light forever is morning light;
but a house isn't sentient; the house
when the sun is out and the wind is still,