Ode on a Fruitless Elk Hunt

I

How long this wasteland have I roamed? How long
Have windblown hilltops, rising stark and bare
O’er barren, snowswept meadows been my home?
How long will th’ frozen air
In frozen fury howl her frozen song?
How long yet will I roam?
For time seems slowed by this bitter cold:
This desert land of wood and snow and stone
(A titan world, unheeded and alone)
Unchanged, untouched by outside worlds, is rolled
In grand repose along the course of time:
Awful and stately – frozen and sublime.

II

Traversing now a wooded, rock-strewn slope,
Awhile I pause, to let my worn mount blow.
From out this ridge a panoramic scope
Unfolds before me; stretching far below
Mid stands of aspen, flung by august hand
Amongst far denser stands of stately pine,
The snowy meadows o’er this frigid land,
Together with the crags and rocky spine,
Are scattered, reaching to the pale grey skies:
The scenes thus manifold before my eyes
These hunting-grounds comprise.
Now restlessly my steed paws in the snow;
Slowly, I turn to go.

III

Another day, and yet I have not seen
The silent denizens of fields and trees –
Elusive quarry! Softly now the breeze
Is dying, now the evening is serene,
As in the west the red-rimmed sun dips low
Beneath the cold horizon; but a glow
Of pale sunlight upon the sky remains:
A lone ray streaks the night with crimson stains;
Softly, I turn to go.
What though a fruitless search these many days
Has been my lot, dealt by the heartless fates?
What though my rifle in my scabbard stays?
Beyond the hills a cheering fire waits:
Much greater wealth that warming fire seems
Than scattered prey, and vanished, half-formed dreams.

Leave a Reply