“Bitter thy roving hath been, O Hunter, and stricken with madness,
And thy winter frenzy hath torn us with torment of sadness—
Horror of blood in the mouth and of murderous lusts that bring
Shadows a-couch in the forest from under us shuddering.
We are sick of the feverish nights that have stolen our gladness—
Ah! we are weary of winter and fain of the Spring!”
“Thy foes, O Hunter, have goaded thy soul, but their goading is over,
For every unfolding leaf is a shield for thy cover
And every grass-blade upraises a spear that is scimitar-keen,