ere mor the peacock flutters, ere the monkey people cry,

ere chil the kite swoops down a furlong sheer,

through the jungle very softly flits a shadow and a sigh —

he is fear, o little hunter, he is fear!

very softly down the glade runs a waiting, watching shade,

and the whisper spreads and widens far and near;

and the sweat is on thy brow, for he passes even now —

he is fear, o little hunter, he is fear!

ere the moon has climbed the mountain, ere the rocks are ribbed with light,

when the downward-dipping trails are dank and drear,

comes a breathing hard behind thee — snuffle-snuffle through the night —

it is fear, o little hunter, it is fear!

on thy knees and draw the bow; bid the shrilling arrow go;

in the empty, mocking thicket plunge the spear;

but thy hands are loosed and weak, and the blood has left thy cheek —

it is fear, o little hunter, it is fear!

when the heat-cloud sucks the tempest, when the slivered pine-trees fall,

when the blinding, blaring rain-squalls lash and veer;

through the war-gongs of the thunder rings a voice more loud than all —

it is fear, o little hunter, it is fear!

now the spates are banked and deep; now the footless boulders leap —

now the lightning shows each littlest leaf-rib clear —

but thy throat is shut and dried, and thy heart against thy side

hammers: fear, o little hunter — this is fear!