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The Hunt
Runs into lair the wind, in a tangle of yellow grasses,
He is a fox, prick-eared, and he scents the huntsmen afar,
Here he may lie, quick-breathed, till the scarlet noonday passes,
And the hounds of the sun are checked at the watercourse of a star.
And the weary muzzles drop, as that frail tide drowns the warning
Of crushed thyme keen to the scent, gorse on a wind-bright hill,
And a savour of tossing broom where he rolled in silk of the morning . . .
Deep in the fern he lies: and the View Hulloa falls still.
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