S16E2: "The Lonely Hunter" by William Sharp

Welcome back to Season 16 of The Well Read Poem podcast! Since summer is upon us, we thought it right to present six poems written on one subject or another in some way inspired by the present season. These works are of a diversity of hands, times, and moods, and we hope that they will add something pleasant to your reading life as the days and nights grow warmer.

Today's poem is "The Lonely Hunter" by William Sharp (pseudonym Fiona McLeod). Poem reading begins at timestamp 5:21.

To learn more about Thomas Banks, visit HouseofHumaneLetters.com, and to listen to our flagship podcast, head to TheLiterary.Life. You can also find free downloadable, printable files with all the poems read on the podcast on our Well Read Poem webpage.

The Lonely Hunter

by William Sharp

Green branches, green branches, I see you
        beckon; I follow!
Sweet is the place you guard, there in the
        rowan-tree hollow.
There he lies in the darkness, under the frail
        white flowers,
Heedless at last, in the silence, of these sweet
        midsummer hours.

But sweeter, it may be, the moss whereon he
        is sleeping now,
And sweeter the fragrant flowers that may
        crown his moon-white brow:
And sweeter the shady place deep in an Eden
        hollow
Wherein he dreams I am with him---and,
        dreaming, whispers, "Follow!"

Green wind from the green-gold branches,
        what is the song you bring?
What are all songs for me, now, who no more
        care to sing?
Deep in the heart of Summer, sweet is life to
        me still,
But my heart is a lonely hunter that hunts on
        a lonely hill.

Green is that hill and lonely, set far in a
        shadowy place;
White is the hunter's quarry, a lost-loved hu-
        man face:
O hunting heart, shall you find it, with arrow
        of failing breath,
Led o'er a green hill lonely by the shadowy
        hound of Death?

Green branches, green branches, you sing of
        a sorrow olden,
But now it is midsummer weather, earth-
        young, sunripe, golden:
Here I stand and I wait, here in the rowan-
        tree hollow,
But never a green leaf whispers, "Follow, oh,
        Follow, Follow!"

O never a green leaf whispers, where the
        green-gold branches swing:
O never a song I hear now, where one was
        wont to sing
Here in the heart of Summer, sweet is life to
        me still,
But my heart is a lonely hunter that hunts on
        a lonely hill.