The Deer and the Prophet
A huntsman, enemy of those
Who praise the prophet Mahomet,
Far in the forest laid his net,
And laid it deep in tangled brier-rose
And tufts of daffodil and thyme and violet.
One early morning, pink and grey
As early mornings are in May
A fallow deer went forth to take the air;
And wandering down the forest glades that way
She fell into the snare.
Alas, poor soul, 'twas all in vain
She sought to venture back again,
Or bounded forth with hurrying feet.
Or plucked with horn and hoof the net;
Too well the mazy toils were set
Around her russet ankles neat.
All hope being gone, she bowed her innocent head
And wept. "O Heaven, that is most just," she said,
"In thy mysterious ends I acquiesce;
Yet of thy mercy deign to bless
The little ones I left at home:
Twin fawns, still dreaming on their bracken-bed
When I went forth to roam,
And wandered careless where the net was spread.
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