The Fawn

Brought up short by the sight of me Invading her mountain privacy, How could the fawn count me as one Who walked the woods without a gun?

Unmoving, bound, her living sense Apprised of our alien difference, She stood for an instant at the brook As terror held her stiff as rock.

How could she tell my hunger apart From the hungry urge of the hunter's heart, Or know the singing in me was Her beauty burnishing the grass?

Eyes that were gentle fires became Desperately dark with flame As if her wary nerves defined The aching tremor of the mind.

Her bronze coat quivered; her split hooves sped Noiselessly to her secret bed— But, oh, the pain in her startled eyes Is wild in my heart! How deep it lies!