by Walter de la Mare
Eyes that glass fear, though fear on furtive foot
Track thee, in slumber bound;
Ears that whist danger, though the wind sigh not,
Nor Echo list a sound;
Heart — oh, what hazard must thy wild life be,
With sapient Man for thy cold enemy!
Fleet Scatterbrains, thou hast thine hours of peace
In pastures April-green,
Where the shrill skylark’s raptures never cease,
And the clear dew englobes the white moon’s beam.
All happiness God gave thee, albeit thy foe
Roves Eden, as did his Satan, long ago.