With a pine-tree clutching its crumbling edge.
A pine, that the lightning long since clave,
Whose huge roots hollow a ragged cave.
A shout; a curse; and a face aghast,
And the human quarry is laired at last.
The human quarry, with clay-clogged hair
And eyes of terror, who waits them there;
That glares and crouches and rising then
Hurls clods and curses at dogs and men.
Until the blow of a gun-butt lays