The Weary Hunting Poem by Maurice Polydore-Marie-Bernard Maeterlinck

My soul is sick, in evil mood;
Stricken with many a lack it lies,
Stricken with silence, and mine eyes
Illume it with their lassitude.

Arrested visions of the chase
Obsess me; memory whips them on;
The sleuth-hounds of Desire are gone
On fading scents-a weary race.

In misty woods the hunt is met;
The questing packs of dreams depart;
Toward the white stags of falsehood dart
The jaundiced arrows of regret.

Ah, my desires! For breath they swoon!
The weary longings of mine eyes
Have clouded with their azure sighs,
Within my soul, the flooding moon!