The Man Hunt, by Madison Cawein

  The woods stretch deep to the mountain side,
  And the brush is wild where a man may hide.

  They have brought the bloodhounds up again
  To the roadside rock where they found the slain.

  They have brought the bloodhounds up, and they
  Have taken the trail to the mountain way.

  Three times they circled the trail and crossed;
  And thrice they found it and thrice they lost.

  Now straight through the trees and the underbrush
  They follow the scent through the forest's hush.

  And their deep-mouthed bay is a pulse of fear
  In the heart of the wood that the man must hear.

  The man who crouches among the trees
  From the stern-faced men who follow these.

  A huddle of rocks that the ooze has mossed,
  And the trail of the hunted again is lost.

  An upturned pebble; a bit of ground
  A heel has trampled—the trail is found.

  And the woods re-echo the bloodhounds' bay
  As again they take to the mountain way.

  A rock; a ribbon of road; a ledge,
  With a pine tree clutching its crumbling edge.

  A pine, that the lightning long since clave,
  Whose huge roots hollow a ragged cave.

  A shout; a curse; and a face aghast;
  The human quarry is laired at last.

  The human quarry with clay-clogged hair
  And eyes of terror who waits them there.

  That glares and crouches and rising then
  Hurls clods and curses at dogs and men.

  Until the blow of a gun-butt lays
  Him stunned and bleeding upon his face.

  A rope; a prayer; and an oak-tree near,
  And a score of hands to swing him clear.

  A grim, black thing for the setting sun
  And the moon and the stars to gaze upon.