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 The Wild Hunt  (4 ratings)by D. M. Chien On this Twelfth Night, darkest night Night of a half-moons light Chill-rimed oak shivers in the breeze And hoarfrost gray beneath its leaves Stands the Hunter, neither man nor beast Tawny-eyed and silver-furred Ears of wolf and gaze of bird Antlered rack, a stags-horn crown A cruel-carved face neer smiles nor frowns O Hunter fae! Thy horn doth sound Come bring thy quarry to the ground And swiftly, now, towards him bounds A milk-white mare, her hooves a-pound, And one monstrous pack of white-fleshed hounds The Fell Hounds, the Yell Hounds The yammering Pell-Mell Hounds Like a sea of bloody foam Rippling oer the frozen loam Yipping, yapping, howling beasts Clamoring for midnight feasts The mare towards her master glides In one swift leap, he is astride And now, now, Hernes Hunt shall ride The Hunter bays, a tenor bell The menée of the Hounds of Hell Streaming, now, in moonlit glow A frightful chase of unseen foes Like a gale, a ghosting flood Squalling through the darksome woods On this Twelfth Night, darkest night Night of unceasing flight
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