The Song of the Little Hunter

by Rudyard Kipling

　　Ere Mor the Peacock flutters, ere the Monkey-People cry,

　　     Ere Chil the Kite swoops down a furlong sheer,

　　Through the Jungle very softly flits a shadow and a sigh--

　　     He is Fear, O Little Hunter, he is Fear!

　　Very softly down the glade runs a waiting, watching shade,

　　     And the whisper spreads and widens far and near;

　　And the sweat is on thy brow, for he passes even now--

　　     He is Fear, O Little Hunter, he is Fear!

　　Ere the moon has climbed the mountain,ere the rocks are ribbed with light,

　　     When the downward-dipping trails are dank and drear,

　　Comes a breathing hard behind thee--snuffle-snuffle through the night--

　　     It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!

　　On thy knees and draw the bow; bid the shrilling arrow go;

　　     In the empty, mocking thicket plunge the spear;

　　But thy hands are loosed and weak, and the blood has left thy cheek--

　　     It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!

　　When the heat-cloud sucks the tempest, when the slivered pine-trees fall,

　　     When the blinding, blaring rain-squalls lash and veer;

　　Through the war-gongs of the thunder rings a voice more loud than all--

　　     It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!

　　Now the spates are banked and deep; now the footless boulders leap--

　　     Now the lightning shows each littlest leaf-rib clear--

　　But thy throat is shut and dried, and thy heart against thy side

　　     Hammers: Fear, O Little Hunter--this is Fear!