Classic Poem

Like unleashed lightning, Whistling Wind,
His snowy hound, flashed down the track,
Leaving the throng of grey and black
A dozen yards behind:

And, as she raced, it seemed his heart,
No longer prisoned in his breast,
A white streak leading all the rest —
Ay, even from the start,

Hot on the heels of the slick hare
That never glanced to left or right,
A dazzling wildfire of delight,
Flashed through the whistling air!