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The squirrels gnaw
The frozen fruit;
To their retreat
I track the feet
Of mice that eat
The apple's root.
The axe resounds,
And bay of hounds,
And tinkling sounds
Of wintry fame;
The hunter's horn
Awakes the dawn
On field forlorn,
And frights the game.
The tinkling air
Doth echo bear
To rabbit's lair,
With dreadful din;
She scents the air,
And far doth fare,
Returning where
She did begin.
The fox stands still
Upon the hill
Not fearing ill
From trackless wind.
But to his foes
The still wind shows
In treacherous snows
His tracks behind.
[145]
