Classic Poem

Many a day my master
And I hunt alone,
And I run faster
Than his flung stone.

Pointing, believing,
In his sure word,
I run, retrieving
His fallen wood-bird.

When from the rushes
I bring it back dead,
His cheek flushes
And he shakes his head.

His stern eyes soften
As it strokes it, still warm,
Saying, " Beauty, how often
Have I done you harm! "

I am a god's shadow,
Swift hound of song;
I run a morning meadow
Where a wind blows strong.