The Lonely Hunter by Fiona McLeod

Green branches, green branches, I see you
        beckon; I follow!
Sweet is the place you guard, there in the
        rowan-tree hollow.
There he lies in the darkness, under the frail
        white flowers,
Heedless at last, in the silence, of these sweet
        midsummer hours.

But sweeter, it may be, the moss whereon he
        is sleeping now,
And sweeter the fragrant flowers that may
        crown his moon-white brow:
And sweeter the shady place deep in an Eden
        hollow
Wherein he dreams I am with him – and,
        dreaming, whispers, “Follow!”

Green wind from the green-gold branches,
        what is the song you bring?
What are all songs for me, now, who no more
        care to sing?
Deep in the heart of Summer, sweet is life to
        me still,
But my heart is a lonely hunter that hunts on
        a lonely hill.

Green is that hill and lonely, set far in a
        shadowy place;
White is the hunter’s quarry, a lost-loved hu-
        man face:
O hunting heart, shall you find it, with arrow
        of failing breath,
Led o’er a green hill lonely by the shadowy
        hound of Death?

Green branches, green branches, you sing of
        a sorrow olden,
But now it is midsummer weather, earth-
        young, sun-ripe, golden:
Here I stand and I wait, here in the rowan-
        tree hollow,
But never a green leaf whispers, “Follow, oh,
        Follow, Follow!”

O never a green leaf whispers, where the
        green-gold branches swing:
O never a song I hear now, where one was
        wont to sing
Here in the heart of Summer, sweet is life to
        me still,
But my heart is a lonely hunter that hunts on
        a lonely hill.

A LONELY HUNTER? I HOPE NOT