The stream is shrunk — the pool is dry, 
And we be comrades, thou and I; 
With fevered jowl and dusty flank 
Each jostling each along the bank; 

And, by one drouthy fear made still, 
Forgoing thought of quest or kill. 
Now 'neath his dam the fawn may see, 
The lean Pack-wolf as cowed as he, 
And the tall buck, unflinching, note 
The fangs that tore his father's throat. 
The pools are shrunk — the streams are dry, 
And we be playmates, thou and I, 
Till yonder cloud — Good Hunting! — loose 
The rain that breaks our Water Truce. 
                                                            How Fear Came.


 = Richard Titus