Classic Poem

The chatter of a death-demon from a tree-top.

Blood--blood and torn grass--
Had marked the rise of his agony--
This lone hunter.
The grey-green woods impassive
Had watched the threshing of his limbs.

A canoe with flashing paddle,
A girl with soft searching eyes,
A call: "John!"
. . . . . . .
Come, arise, hunter!
Can you not hear?

The chatter of a death-demon from a tree-
top.