The chatter of a death-demon from a tree-top.
Blood—blood and torn grass—
Had marked the rise of his agony—
This lone hunter.
The grey-green woods impassive
Had watched the threshing of his limbs.
A canoe with flashing paddle,
A girl with soft searching eyes,
A call: "John!"
. . . . . . .
Come, arise, hunter!
Can you not hear?
The chatter of a death-demon from a tree-