Rudyard Kipling (1865–1936). Verse: 1885–1918. 1922.

The Song of the Little Hunter

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!