Song

We know where deepest lies the snow,
And where the frost-winds keenest blow,
  O'er every mountain's brow,
We long have known and learnt to bear
The wandering outlaw's toil and care,
But where we late were hunted, there
  Our foes are hunted now.
We have their princely homes, and they
To our wild haunts are chased away,
  Dark woods, and desert caves.
And we can range from hill to hill,
And chase our vanquished victors still;
Small respite will they find until
  They slumber in their graves.

But I would rather be the hare,
That crouching in its sheltered lair
  Must start at every sound;
That forced from cornfields waving wide
Is driven to seek the bare hillside,
Or in the tangled copse to hide,
  Than be the hunter's hound.

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Anne Brontë

Anne Brontë was a British novelist and poet, the youngest member of the Brontë literary family. more…

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"Song" Poetry.net. STANDS4 LLC, 2019. Web. 13 Dec. 2019. <https://www.poetry.net/poem/3168/song>.

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