The Black Hound

WHITE-TOOTHED is the Black Hound, And ever, as he comes after, There is no sweetness in wine, Nor is there joyance in laughter. Red-tongued is the Black Hound, And ever, as he speeds baying, There is no shaking him off, Nor is there stopping or staying. Keen-sensed in the thick dark He follows for ever and ever; Nought stays him in his pursuit — Nor marsh, nor mountain, nor river. Day-long through the broad light, His tongue like a flame outleaping, He hunts; and we fly before, Wan-faced, foot-weary and weeping. Night-through in the still hours When stars in the sky assemble, We hear his cry on the roads, And startled, staring, we tremble. White-toothed is the Black Hound, And speed to his limbs is given; God help and pity us all Who fly for ever, hard-driven! Time comes when the feet fail Or drag on the ways, unwilling; Then fast, froth-flakes on his jaws, He speeds keen-fanged to the killing. Then some, as they pass, say — Few pausing, and weeping, fewer — 'Hound-work is this that we see, Fang-work of him, the Pursuer!' Black Care is the Black Hound, And ever 'tis his to follow Pale men from birth to that hour When grave-mouths open and swallow.