Our hunting fathers told the story
   Of the sadness of the creatures,
   Pitied the limits and the lack
   Set in their finished features;
   Saw in the lion’s intolerant look,
   Behind the quarry’s dying glare,
   Love raging for, the personal glory
   That reason’s gift would add,
   The liberal appetite and power,
   The rightness of a god.
 
   Who, nurtured in that fine tradition,
   Predicted the result,
   Guessed Love by nature suited to
   The intricate ways of guilt,
   That human ligaments could so
   His southern gestures modify
   And make it his mature ambition
   To think no thought but ours,
   To hunger, work illegally,
   And be anonymous?

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