Dance Poem by Jerome Brooke

Around the lone, tired man, hunters,
Wolves, a circle formed.
Wolves, white wolves, howled,
Howled, and swarmed.

Blood of timid deer, blood of swift horse,
Rich blood, the pack had known.
But now, slow, one fell, and rose, in the snow;
Human blood, would be their own.

Rushing to the lone, tired man,
Sharp fangs bare;
Wolves closed, icy howls rose;
Fear filled the air.

Down, came the heavy axe, cruel,
Sharp, with dark stone.
Soon cries arose, surprise and pain;
Soon, stood the man, alone.

Wolves lay, where now the man,
Silent, now stood.
Fangs can be of stone, and tied,
Bound, to barren wood.