Wild

He runs along the verge, his tail hung down,
His fur reflecting red beneath the moon,
Home neither in the country nor the town.
He hurries lest the day should come too soon.
Light steals all prospects of a hearty meal;
A tender pullet or a careless hare.
He begs the wind such off’rings to reveal.
That he might snatch and carry to his lair.
Yet, many days his belly only sees
The stretching hours of starving fretful rest,
With nothing that his hunger would appease.
These are the times that form the wild thing’s test.
Unending seem the nights for such as he;
Such is the price to pay for being free.

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