The hunt . . .
And here, as he ran to the huntsman's yelling
The fox first felt that the pace was telling;
His body and lungs seemed all grown old,
His legs less certain, his heart less bold,
The hound - now nearer, the hill slope steeper,
The thud in the blood of his body deeper.
His pride in his speed, his joy in the race,
Were withered away, for what use his pace?
He had run his best, and the hounds run better . . .
He ran up gorse to the spring of the ramp,
The steep green wall of the dead man's camp . . .
He raced the trench, past the rabbit warren,
Close grown with moss, which the wind made barren;
He passed the spring where the rushes spread,
And there in the stones was his earth ahead.
One last short burst upon failing feet -
There life lay waiting, so sweet, so sweet,
Rest in a darkness, balm for aches,
The earth was stopped.
It was barred with stakes.
John Masefield