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Huntsman, What Quarry?
by
Edna St. Vincent Millay
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“Huntsman, what quarry? On the dry hill Do your hounds harry? When the red oak is bare And the white oak still Rattles its leaves In the cold air: What fox runs there?” “Girl, gathering acorns In the cold autumn I hunt the hot pads That ever run before I hunt the pointed mask That makes no reply I hunt the red brush Of remembered joy.” “To tame or to destroy?” “To destroy.” “Huntsman, hard by In a wood of grey beeches Whose leaves are on the ground Is a house with a fire; You can see the smoke from here There’s supper and a soft bed And not a soul around Come with me there; Bide there with me; And let the fox run free.” The horse that he rode on Reached down its neck Blew upon the acorns Nuzzled them aside; The sun was near setting; He thought, “Shall I take her?” He thought, “Shall I take her For a one-night’s bride?” He smelled the sweet smoke He looked the lady over; Her hand was on his knee; But like a flame from cover The red fox broke – And “Hoick! Hoick!” cried he
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