I.

I was a huntsman in my youth, and knew Each bird and beast that haunts the forest tall, Or wings the air, hard by the water-fall. Over the plain and up the mountain blue My twanging bow was heard, my arrows flew. My bowstring now is rent, my arrows all Like spears that from the withered pine-cones fall, Have from my shrunken quiver vanished too. Yet sometimes o’er me steals the olden mood, And wandering in the forest deep and dark, I greet each old familiar tree and mark, Each spot whereon the lovely quarry stood, While faintly through my withered veins once more Leaps the triumphant thrill I knew of yore.