Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/90

THE DEATH OF THE WOLF.

WRITTEN IN THE CHATEAU OF M ***

ALFRED DE VIGNY.

Across the large disk of the moon the clouds
Ran like the smoke across a bonfire's blaze;
And to the farthest limits of the sky
The woods grew dark. We marched, in silence all,
Upon the humid turf, in dense low furze,
Or higher heath, when under stunted pines
Like those that stud the moors, we dimly traced
The big marks of the claws of wandering wolves
We had already tracked. We stopped and held
Our breath to listen. Neither in the wood,
Nor in the plain far off, nor in the air,
The faintest sound or sigh was audible;
Only the distant village weathercock
Creaked to the firmament as if it mourned;
For high uplifted soared above the earth
The wind, and it grazed only with its wings
The solitary towers and dim-seen spires,
While ancient oaks and other lofty trees,
That leaned their brows against the rocks below,
Seemed wrapt in slumber peaceful and profound.
Amid this silence suddenly crouched down
The oldest of us—hunters on the search—