Poem Robert Frost

THE RABBIT HUNTER

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Careless and still
The hunter lurks
With gun depressed,
Facing alone
The alder swamps
Ghastly snow-white.
And rus hound works
In the offing there
Like one possessed,
And yelps delight
And sIngs and romps,
Bnnging hIm on
The shadowy hare
For him to rend
And deal a death
That he nor it
(Nor I) have WIt
To comprehend.

A Loose Mountain
November

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