The wolf-cub at even

The wolf-cub at even lay hid in the corn, 
When the smoke of the cooking hung grey.
He knew where the doe made a couch for her fawn, 
And he looked to his strength for his prey.
But the moon swept the smoke-wreaths away;
And he turned from his meal in the villager's close, 
And he bayed to the moon as she rose.

Choose another poem