Sylvia Lynd: Hunting Song

The hunt is up! the hunt is up!
It sounds from hill to hill,
It pierces to the hidden place
Where we are lying still;
And one of us the quarry is,	5
And one of us must go,
When through the arches of the wood
We hear the dread horn blow.

A huntsman bold is Master Death,
And reckless doth he ride,	10
And terror’s hounds with bleeding fangs
Go baying at his side;
And will it be a milk-white doe,
A little dappled fawn,
Or will it be an antlered stag	15
Must face the icy dawn?

Or will it be a golden fox
Must leap from out his lair,
Or where the trailing shadows pass
A merry romping hare?	20
The hunt is up, the horn is loud
By plain and covert side,
And we must run alone, alone,
When Death abroad doth ride.

But idle ’tis to crouch in fear,	25
Since death will find you out;
Then up and hold your head erect,
And pace the wood about,
And swim the stream, and leap the wall,
And race the starry mead,	30
Nor feel the bright teeth in your flank
Till they be there indeed.

For in the secret hearts of men
Are peace and joy at one.
There is a pleasant land where stalks	35
No darkness in the sun,
And through the arches of the wood
Do break, like silver foam,
Young laughter, and the noise of flutes,
And voices singing home.	40