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Edgar Guest - The Hunter
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Cheek that is tanned to the wind of the north. 
Body that jests at the bite of the cold, 
Limbs that are eager and strong to go forth 
Into the wilds and the ways of the bold; 
Red blood that pulses and throbs in the veins, 
Ears that love silences better than noise; 
Strength of the forest and health of the plains; 
These the rewards that the hunter enjoys. 

Forests were ever the cradles of men; 
Manhood is born of a kinship with trees. 
Whence shall come brave hearts and stout muscles, when 
Woods have made way for our cities of ease? 
Oh, do you wonder that stalwarts return 
Yearly to hark to the whispering oaks? 
`Tis for the brave days of old that they yearn: 
These are the splendors the hunter invokes.
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