Arthur Conan Doyle

Living English Poets


There's a keen and grim old huntsman
     On a horse as white as snow;
Sometimes he is very swift
     And sometimes he is very slow.
But he never is at fault,
     For he always hunts at view,
And he rides without a halt
     After you.

The huntsman's name is Death,
     His horse's name is Time;
He is coming, he is coming,
     As I sit and write this rhyme;
He is coming, he is coming,
     As you read this rhyme I write;
You can hear the hoofs' low drumming
     Day and night.

You can hear the distant drumming
     As the clock goes tick-a-tack,
And the chiming of the hours
     In the music of his pack.
You may hardly note their growling
     Underneath the noonday sun,
But at night you hear them howling
     As they run.

And they never check or falter
     For they never miss their kill;
Seasons change and systems alter,
     But the hunt is running still.
Hark! the evening chime is playing,
     O'er the long gray town in peals;
Don't you hear the death-hound baying
     At your heels?

Where is there an earth or burrow?
     Where a cover left for you?
A year, a week, perhaps to-morrow
     Brings the Huntsman's death halloo.
Day by day he gains upon us,
     And the most that we can claim
Is that when the hounds are on us
     We die game.

And somewhere dwells the Master,
     By whom it was decreed;
He sent the savage huntsman,
     He bred the snow-white steed.
These hounds which run forever,
     He set them on your track;
He hears you scream, but never
     Calls them back.

He does not heed our suing,
     We never see his face;
He hunts to our undoing,
     We thank him for the chase.
We thank him and we flatter,
     We hope -- because we must --
But have we cause? No matter!
     Let us trust!


Главная Гостевая книга Попытка (сказки)
Артур Конан Дойл и его последователи