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It is cold.
Dubious rain of gold casting its fall
Over eyes that first fall to stone and shade
Until no more

Light is seen.
Against its fur’s dull sheen the very earth
Shimmers, each claw on earth carefully laid
While black eyes keen

Search for prey.
Beneath crag hard and grey in fear I hide
That night would cover hide and scent to fade,
And in this way

Hope for morn.
Hold!—with fury silence torn—a mournful voice
A most terrible voice of terror bayed;
All hope shorn

I must run.
All attempt at escape is shunned with hunger bred
Across nights of want, bred in sleepful days:
My will is done