As I look upon a night
And see the skein of stars strung out,
I know for sure where my old hounds
Are running yet, are hunting still.
I seem to hear to my delight
Their hunting cries –
O glorious din!
My tired legs glow with new-found drive,
My aching lungs draw deep again.
The moon beams down in patches bright
On grass, on road, among the trees,
And seem to bring them back to me
For yet a while as I run on.
They dash in joyful headlong flight –
Their shapes stretch on beyond my ken.
I hunt a ghostly pack tonight –
Orion be my whipper-in!
-James Fagan Scharnberg
