Cicely Fox Smith

(1 February 1882 – 8 April 1954 / Lymm, Cheshire)

The Grey Wolf - Poem by Cicely Fox Smith

The grey wolf stood in the ruin hoar,
The wolf that hunts alone:
His shadow lay along the floor,
Athwart the cold hearthstone.
The winding of the hunter's horn
Fell on his listening ear,
Far on the whistling tempest borne,
And filled his heart with fear.
Lone wolf, grey wolf, heed not hunter's holloa,
Nor the baying of the hounds, ranging far and near!
It is other game they follow, thro' the thicket, in the hollow,
And the grey wolf need not fear!

Who may they be and what their prey,
That hunt at dead of night,
When the winds are loose and the woods are grey
In the silvery cold moonlight?
Nor fox nor red-deer seek the band;
What means such headlong pace?
'Tis the stain of blood on a murder's hand
That calls them to the chase!
Lone wolf, grey wolf, heed not hunter's holloa,
Nor the baying of the hounds, ranging far and near!
It is other game they follow, thro' the thicket, in the hollow,
And the grey wolf need not fear!

He slew Lord Ronald in the night.
Ah! black and base his deed!
And these have sworn to do the right
That he may have his meed.
The hounds are belling in the woods:
The broad stream flows before;
And safety waits across the flood,
Upon the farther shore.
Lone wolf, grey wolf, heed not hunter's holloa,
Nor the baying of the hounds, ranging far and near!
It is other game they follow, thro' the thicket, in the hollow,
And the grey wolf need not fear!

He leapt into the cold, dark wave,
And like was he to drown,
For strong the darkling current drave,
The eddies dragg'd him down.
But swiftly tho' the river glides,
The bank is won at last,
And in the ruin grey he hides,
His deadly peril past.
Lone wolf, grey wolf, hoary midnight rover,
Dweller in the ruin'd hall, 'mid the moonlight clear,
Tho' he deems his peril over, other dangers round him hover,
He hath other foe to fear!

As 'neath the ivied wall he crept,
Cold, wet, but still elate,
Full at his throat the grey wolf leapt,
With one deep growl of hate.
A moment and the fight was o'er,
And hush'd hid dying groan:
His blood is red upon the floor,
Athwart the cold hearthstone.
Lone wolf, grey wolf, heed not the hunter's holloa,
Nor the baying of the hounds, ranging far and near!
It is other game they follow, thro' the thicket, in the hollow,
And the grey wolf need not fear!


Comments about The Grey Wolf by Cicely Fox Smith

There is no comment submitted by members..



Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?



Poem Submitted: Monday, August 30, 2010



[Report Error]