The Deer and the Prophet
"And yet, O Heaven, how shall they live.
Poor yeanlings, if their mother die?
Their only nourishment am I;
They have no other food beside the milk I give.
And save my breast no warmth at night,
While still the frost lies crisp and white.
As lie it will until the roses blow."
And here she fetched so deep a sigh
That her petition could no further go.
Now as she hushed, the huntsman strode in sight
Who every morning went that way
To see if Heaven had led the hoped-for prey
Into his nets by night.
And when he saw the fallow deer.
He stood and laughed aloud and clear.
And laid his hand upon her neck
Of russet with a snowy fleck.
And forth his hunting-knife he drew:
"Aha!" he cried, "my pretty dame.
Into my nets full easily you came;
But forth again, my maiden, spring not you!"
And as he laughed, he would have slit
The throat that saw no help from it.
But lo! a trembling took the air,
A rustling of the leaves about the snare;
And Some-one, dusk and slim,
There, sudden, stayed his hand and smiled at him.
Now, never was there huntsman yet
Who, when the tangled snare was set
And in the snare the comely game.
Endured the loosening of the net.
Our huntsman turned an angry face aflame,
And none the lesser was his wroth
To see none other, by my troth,
Than Mahomet himself, the immortal Mahomet,
Who stood beside the net.
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