Rudyard Kipling

THE SECOND JUNGLE BOOK
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THE SONG OF THE LITTLE HUNTER

 Ere Mor the Peacock flutters, ere the Monkey People cry,
 Ere Chil the Kite swoops down a furlong sheer,
 Through the Jungle very softly flits a shadow and a sigh—
 He is Fear, O Little Hunter, he is Fear!
 
 Very softly down the glade runs a waiting, watching shade,
 And the whisper spreads and widens far and near;
 And the sweat is on thy brow, for he passes even now—
 He is Fear, O Little Hunter, he is Fear!
 
 Ere the moon has climbed the mountain, ere the rocks
 are ribbed with light,
 When the downward-dipping trails are dank and drear,
 Comes a breathing hard behind thee—snuffle-snuffle
 through the night—
 It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!
 
 On thy knees and draw the bow; bid the shrilling arrow go;
 In the empty, mocking thicket plunge the spear;
 But thy hands are loosed and weak, and the blood has left
 thy cheek—
 It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!
 
 When the heat-cloud sucks the tempest, when the slivered
 pine-trees fall,
 When the blinding, blaring rain-squalls lash and veer;
 Through the war-gongs of the thunder rings a voice more
 loud than all—
 It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!
 
 Now the spates are banked and deep; now the footless
 boulders leap—
 Now the lightning shows each littlest leaf-rib clear—
 But thy throat is shut and dried, and thy heart against
 thy side
 Hammers: Fear, O Little Hunter—this is Fear!