Hound Voice
BECAUSE we love bare hills and stunted trees
And were the last to choose the settled ground,
Its boredom of the desk or of the spade, because
So many years companioned by a hound,
Our voices carry; and though slumber-bound,
Some few half wake and half renew their choice,
Give tongue, proclaim their hidden name -- 'Hound Voice.'
The women that I picked spoke sweet and low
And yet gave tongue. 'Hound Voices' were they all.
We picked each other from afar and knew
What hour of terror comes to test the soul,
And in that terror's name obeyed the call,
And understood, what none have understood,
Those images that waken in the blood.
Some day we shall get up before the dawn
And find our ancient hounds before the door,
And wide awake know that the hunt is on;
Stumbling upon the blood-dark track once more,
Then stumbling to the kill beside the shore;
Then cleaning out and bandaging of wounds,
And chantS of victory amid the encircling hounds.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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Related quotes
Over The Hills
The old hound wags his shaggy tail,
And I know what he would say:
It's over the hills we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills, and away.
There's nought for us here save to count the clock,
And hang the head all day:
But over the hills we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.
Here among men we're like the deer
That yonder is our prey:
So, over the hills we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.
The hypocrite is master here,
But he's the cock of clay:
So, over the hills we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.
The women, they shall sigh and smile,
And madden whom they may:
It's over the hills we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.
Let silly lads in couples run
To pleasure, a wicked fay:
'Tis ours on the heather to bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.
The torrent glints under the rowan red,
And shakes the bracken spray:
What joy on the heather to bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.
The sun bursts broad, and the heathery bed
Is purple, and orange, and gray:
Away, and away, we'll bound, old hound,
Over the hills and away.
poem by George Meredith
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Hound Dog Man
Hey, hound dog man,
Where you been now,where you been?
I wish that you were back,
It was too good to ever end.
Once in a while someone like you
Will give everything for what you wanted to do.
Hey, hound dog man,
My old friend play it again.
You gave the world a whole lot of joy
Now that aint bad for a country boy
I just knew you could not lose
The way you sang rock and roll and blues.
I still think about these things
And the memory that it brings
Hey, hound dog man,
My old friend,play it again.
Hey, hound dog man,
My old friend,play it again
Sometimes I think about james dean,
Sammy cooke and my teenage queen.
Doo ron, de ron, de ron,
Marilyn monroe and hot rod fun.
I still think about these things
And the memory that it brings.
Hey, hound dog man,
My old friend,play it again.
Hey, hound dog man,
My old friend why did it end?
Hey, hound dog man,
My old friend, why did it end.
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dying humanity
Seeking their love day and night,
She is wailing on her plight,
Knocking about door to door,
She will find love no more,
Noone shows a bit of care,
Love has become a nightmare,
The whim of love has made her so,
Everyone has turned her foe,
Many wounds that she has gained,
Her visage looks so blood stained,
The wounds of bonds and pain of love,
Has made her crying and wingless dove,
She can't soar in the sky of hope,
Their callous wish will make her elope,
She is lying on the bed of ground,
Bitten by the dangerous hound,
The hound of bribe and massive greed,
Devoid of religion, faith and creed,
One day she will be killed by him,
She will get the due of her whim,
People will never see her again,
She will leave trouble and pain.
So I pray to thee all,
Save the bird from heavenly call.
poem by Mohammad Akmal Nazir
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The Hounds
Far off a lonely hound
Telling his loneliness all round
To the dark woods, dark hills, and darker sea;
And, answering, the sound
Of that yet lonelier sea-hound
Telling his loneliness to the solitary stars.
Hearing, the kennelled hound
Some neighbourhood and comfort found,
And slept beneath the comfortless high stars.
But that wild sea-hound
Unkennelled, called all night all round--
The unneighboured and uncomforted cold sea.
poem by John Freeman
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Beddgelert - (pron. Beth-gelert)
‘There once was a Prince called Llywelyn, Dai bach,
The Lord of this Snowdon Wales,
Back in the mists of the mountain, when times
Saw wolves leave their blood-stained trails.'
(I sat by the Church of St. Mary out there,
The vicar stared out on his fold,
His rheumy old eyes held the myth and the lies
That the Welsh told the people of old!)
I listened, he spoke, and I doubted him then,
The story he told so bizarre,
But when he had finished, I baited my breath,
Walked musingly back to my car.
Llywelyn, the hunter, was given a hound,
A present from England's King John,
A mighty wolf hound that he treasured and took
On his hunting trips, loping along.
The Prince had an heir that was merely a babe,
Still swaddled in linens and veils,
The child was his joy, he'd been blessed with a boy,
He was one of the Princes of Wales.
Llywelyn went hunting abroad with his pack,
The hounds were all baying the way,
The buglers followed, their blasts on the horn
Drove the hogs that were leading the fray!
The hunt brought them venison, gammon and fowl,
The hunt brought them mutton and game,
But Gelert, the hound, was nowhere to be found
Though the Prince called, and bellowed his name.
Llywelyn rode back to the palace at dusk,
Dismounted and looked for his son,
The cot was all bloodstained, the covers were torn
And a sign of the child, there was none!
Then Gelert leapt up, and he greeted the Prince
With a loud joyous cry in the dark,
His fur was all bloodied, his teeth dripped with gore,
And Llywelyn shrank back at his bark.
In thinking his son had been slaughtered, the Prince
Cried out as he lifted his sword,
And ran through the hound as he fell to the ground
And he cursed and he cried, the good lord!
But then came an answering, pitiful cry
From the child that lay under a bed,
The boy was uncut, but was smeared with the blood
Of the wolf that lay next to him, dead!
The throat had been torn from the wolf by the hound,
Brave Gelert defended the son,
And now that the Prince held the child in his arms
He reflected on what he had done!
He cradled the body of Gelert and wept,
And buried in honour his hound,
He set up a stone with the tale that it told
And it stands there today, on its ground.
The place is Beddgelert, in Gwynedd, look you,
And hundreds of years have gone by,
But history tells us, Llewelyn the Great,
Was never again seen to smile!
David Lewis Paget
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Macquarie Harbour
Macquarie Harbour jailers lock
the sullen gates no more.....
but lash-strokes sound in every shock
of ocean on the dismal rocks
along that barren shore.
No more the bolters hear the hound
that bays upon the wind,
and terror-spurred kepp onward-bound
until they drop upon the ground
starved and terror-pinned....
But gales that whine among the hills
sniff at the savage tracks
the hopeless took. The snowfall fills
bleak ranges; then the moonlight spills
broad arows on their backs.
poem by Rex Ingamells
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The Ballad Of The Foxhunter
'Lay me in a cushioned chair;
Carry me, ye four,
With cushions here and cushions there,
To see the world once more.
'To stable and to kennel go;
Bring what is there to bring;
Lead my Lollard to and fro,
Or gently in a ring.
'Put the chair upon the grass:
Bring Rody and his hounds,
That I may contented pass
From these earthly bounds.'
His eyelids droop, his head falls low,
His old eyes cloud with dreams;
The sun upon all things that grow
Falls in sleepy streams.
Brown Lollard treads upon the lawn,
And to the armchair goes,
And now the old man's dreams are gone,
He smooths the long brown nose.
And now moves many a pleasant tongue
Upon his wasted hands,
For leading aged hounds and young
The huntsman near him stands.
'Huntsmam Rody, blow the horn,
Make the hills reply.'
The huntsman loosens on the morn
A gay wandering cry.
Fire is in the old man's eyes,
His fingers move and sway,
And when the wandering music dies
They hear him feebly say,
'Huntsman Rody, blow the horn,
Make the hills reply.'
'I cannot blow upon my horn,
I can but weep and sigh.'
Servants round his cushioned place
Are with new sorrow wrung;
Hounds are gazing on his face,
Aged hounds and young.
One blind hound only lies apart
On the sun-smitten grass;
He holds deep commune with his heart:
The moments pass and pass:
The blind hound with a mournful din
Lifts slow his wintry head;
The servants bear the body in;
The hounds wail for the dead.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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The Black Hound
WHITE-TOOTHED is the Black Hound,
And ever, as he comes after,
There is no sweetness in wine,
Nor is there joyance in laughter.
Red-tongued is the Black Hound,
And ever, as he speeds baying,
There is no shaking him off,
Nor is there stopping or staying.
Keen-sensed in the thick dark
He follows for ever and ever;
Nought stays him in his pursuit —
Nor marsh, nor mountain, nor river.
Day-long through the broad light,
His tongue like a flame outleaping,
He hunts; and we fly before,
Wan-faced, foot-weary and weeping.
Night-through in the still hours
When stars in the sky assemble,
We hear his cry on the roads,
And startled, staring, we tremble.
White-toothed is the Black Hound,
And speed to his limbs is given;
God help and pity us all
Who fly for ever, hard-driven!
Time comes when the feet fail
Or drag on the ways, unwilling;
Then fast, froth-flakes on his jaws,
He speeds keen-fanged to the killing.
Then some, as they pass, say —
Few pausing, and weeping, fewer —
'Hound-work is this that we see,
Fang-work of him, the Pursuer!'
Black Care is the Black Hound,
And ever 'tis his to follow
Pale men from birth to that hour
When grave-mouths open and swallow.
poem by Roderic Quinn
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Gullible, The Bear
A Dachshund who was long of hair
met in the forest an old bear.
The bear was sitting on a log
and held in his huge paws a frog.
The hound adored all frogs and toads
and always scanned the fields and roads
for something green that blended in,
it gave him a contented grin.
'What did you have in mind, Big Bear? '
Hound asked, his voice now full of flair.
'Frog legs', the bear said, 'are for me,
my snack to have with the green tea.'
'How could you eat the spark of life? !
He may have children and a wife!
Do you not know, you big bad mug
that I could make from you a rug? '
He spoke, as Dachshunds are so prone
as if the subject were a bone,
then showed his teeth, let out a growl
which then alerted Mrs. Owl.
'Oh, yes', said Mrs.Owl, 'it's true,
a hound can really finish you.
So let the frog go home I say,
that way, your hide will be okay! '
The bear looked at the frog and then
down to the dog and counted ten.
He did not need a bad surprise
and knew that owls are very wise.
poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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One-eyed Hound
Mister youve been caught at last
Chasing dogs in the moonlight
This man committed a sin
This man he never can win
Mister youve got one more chance
If you catch the hound when the sun shines
This man committed a sin
This man he never can win
And its all gone wrong
Night is the time for chasing the one-eyed hound
And its all been tried before
Night is the time for chasing the one-eyed hound
Have you seen the one-eyed hound?
Tell me where hes going
This man committed a sin
This man he never can win
Every place that I have been
No-one else has seen him
This man committed a sin
This man he never can win
And its all gone wrong
Night is the time for chasing the one-eyed hound
And its all been tried before
Night is the time for chasing the one-eyed hound
Everybodys telling me exactly where to go
This man committed a sin
This man he never can win
People call and people talk
But they dont reach agreement
This man committed a sin
This man he never can win
And its all gone wrong
Night is the time for chasing the one-eyed hound
And its all been tried before
Night is the time for chasing the one-eyed hound
Night is the time for chasing the one-eyed hound
song performed by by Genesis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Old King
King went a-runnin after deer
Wasnt scared of jumpin off the truck in high gear
King went a-sniffin and he would go
Was the best old hound dog I ever did know.
I had a dog and his name was king
I told the dog about everything
There in my truck the dog and i
Then one day the king up and died.
Then I thought about the times we had
Once when I kicked him when he was bad
Old king sure meant a lot to me
But that hound dog is history.
King went a-runnin after deer
Wasnt scared of jumpin off the truck in high gear
King went a-sniffin and he would go
Was the best old hound dog I ever did know.
That old king was a friend of mine
Never knew a dog that was half as fine
I may find one, you never do know
cause I still got a long way to go.
I had a dog and his name was king
I told the dog about everything
Old king sure meant a lot to me
But that hound dog is history.
King went a-howlin after deer
Wasnt scared of jumpin off the truck in high gear
King went a-sniffin and he would go
Was the best old hound dog I ever did know.
song performed by by Neil Young
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Maze of Happiness
Happiness
Can only be found
If you search for it
Like a vicious blood hound
Happiness
Is just like love
Just to get it
You will push and shove
Happiness
Is just a door
You open it up
And you just want more
Happiness
Grows like trees
It gets really big
But dies in a breeze
Happiness
Is what I could never find
So I went to the dark
To sit and hide
poem by Joey Nissen
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Hunting Song
Waken, lords and ladies gay,
On the mountain dawns the day;
All the jolly chase is here
With hawk and horse and hunting-spear,
Hounds are in their couples yelling,
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,
Merrily, merrily mingle they
Waken, lords and ladies gay.
Waken, lords and ladies gay,
The mist has left the mountain gray;
Springlets in the dawn are steaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming;
And foresters have busy been
To track the buck in thicket green;
Now we come to chant our lay,
Waken, lords and ladies gay.
Waken, lords and ladies gay,
To the greenwood haste away;
We can show you where he lies,
Fleet of foot and tall of size;
We can show the marks he made
When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;
You shall see him brought to bay
Waken, lords and ladies gay.
Louder, louder chant the lay,
Waken, lords and ladies gay!
Tell them youth and mirth and glee
Run a course as well as we;
Time, stern huntsman! who can balk,
Staunch as hound and fleet as hawk:
Think of this, and rise with day,
Gentle lords and ladies gay!
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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I’s Gots a Hound Dog Commin
I’s gots a hound dog commin,
He’s gonna sniff me out
Done went and smelled up Herbert
Done smelled up Janice too.
I’s gots a hound dog commin,
Done smelt out dees new wurds,
An hes gonna tear em up
Tear mes as down as well.
I’s Gots a hound dog commin,
Caint hide mys smell no mo,
Dem wurds puts out an oder,
Dat hound is boundda smell.
I’s gots a hound dog commin,
So I says goes, let em come,
He don’t know nuttin no ways,
No comments dat I’s fears.
I’s gots a hound dog commin,
Here doggie, I’s right here.
Come read dees wurds, an tells me,
Is dis a poet dat ya’s smell?
poem by Sandra Osborne
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Song: Top Dog
Without the luxury or remorse,
of the kennelled cops on horse;
the addict dogs patrol the airport lounge.
I'm an Officer of the Force,
PC Dogie O'Hound, of course,
a taut spring, tight and tensioned, till unwound.
Dogie O'Hound, the cop from the Pound:
I hunts 'em down. I hunts 'em down.
I gets around as Dogie O'Hound,
to sniff out more quarry, pound for pound.
The dog cop is Halle-Boppe,
a comet to a grain.
You'll never stop the dogged cop;
hard-nosed and so well-trained.
The cop dog is top dog,
in the furry food-chain.
The cop dog, full chop dog,
smells guilt in flooding rain.
Dogie O'Hound, the cop from the Pound:
I hunts 'em down. I hunts 'em down.
Dogie O'Hound's no flip-flop, nor bound
by the laws of the jungle. My power's profound!
The cop dog's a hot dog,
whose nose can entertain,
the thick fog and mixed blog,
of false scent as no-brained.
The dog cop is hip-hop;
wild and unrestrained.
The dog cop is tip-top,
black ops and arts arcane.
With a known and honed resource,
my talent alone exhorts,
all lesser breeds to cower, as I confound.
I'm an Officer of the Force,
PC Dogie O'Hound, of course.
I am a blooded lurcher of renown.
Dogie O'Hound, the cop from the Pound:
I hunts 'em down. I hunts 'em down.
Dogie O'Hound, the new hero is crowned,
who harries and worries, and hunts 'em down.
poem by David SmithWhite
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Fidele's Grassy Tomb
The Squire sat propped in a pillowed chair,
His eyes were alive and clear of care,
But well he knew that the hour was come
To bid good-bye to his ancient home.
He looked on garden, wood, and hill,
He looked on the lake, sunny and still:
The last of earth that his eyes could see
Was the island church of Orchardleigh.
The last that his heart could understand
Was the touch of the tongue that licked his hand:
'Bury the dog at my feet,' he said,
And his voice dropped, and the Squire was dead.
Now the dog was a hound of the Danish breed,
Staunch to love and strong at need:
He had dragged his master safe to shore
When the tide was ebbing at Elsinore.
From that day forth, as reason would,
He was named 'Fidele,' and made it good:
When the last of the mourners left the door
Fidele was dead on the chantry floor.
They buried him there at his master's feet,
And all that heard of it deemed it meet:
The story went the round for years,
Till it came at last to the Bishop's ears.
Bishop of Bath and Wells was he,
Lord of the lords of Orchardleigh;
And he wrote to the Parson the strongest screed
That Bishop may write or Parson read.
The sum of it was that a soulless hound
Was known to be buried in hallowed ground:
From scandal sore the Church to save
They must take the dog from his masters grave.
The heir was far in a foreign land,
The Parson was wax to my Lord's command:
He sent for the Sexton and bade him make
A lonely grave by the shore of the lake.
The Sexton sat by the water's brink
Where he used to sit when he used to think:
He reasoned slow, but he reasoned it out,
And his argument left him free from doubt.
'A Bishop,' he said, 'is the top of his trade:
But there's others can give him a start with the spade:
Yon dog, he carried the Squire ashore,
And a Christian couldn't ha' done no more.
The grave was dug; the mason came
And carved on stone Fidele's name;
But the dog that the Sexton laid inside
Was a dog that never had lived or died.
So the Parson was praised,and the scandal stayed,
Till, a long time after, the church decayed,
And, laying the floor anew, they found
In the tomb of the Squire the bones of a hound.
As for the Bishop of Bath and Wells
No more of him the story tells;
Doubtless he lived as a Prelate and Prince,
And died and was buried a century since.
And whether his view was right or wrong
Has little to do with this my song;
Something we owe him, you must allow;
And perhaps he has changed his mind by now.
The Squire in the family chantry sleeps,
The marble still his memory keeps:
Remember, when the name you spell,
There rest Fidele's bones as well.
For the Sexton's grave you need not search,
'Tis a nameless mound by the island church:
An ignorant fellow, of humble lot---
But. he knew one thing that a Bishop did not.
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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The Grey Rock
Poets with whom I learned my trade.
Companions of the Cheshire Cheese,
Here's an old story I've remade,
Imagining 'twould better please
Your cars than stories now in fashion,
Though you may think I waste my breath
Pretending that there can be passion
That has more life in it than death,
And though at bottling of your wine
Old wholesome Goban had no say;
The moral's yours because it's mine.
When cups went round at close of day --
Is not that how good stories run? --
The gods were sitting at the board
In their great house at Slievenamon.
They sang a drowsy song, Or snored,
For all were full of wine and meat.
The smoky torches made a glare
On metal Goban 'd hammered at,
On old deep silver rolling there
Or on somc still unemptied cup
That he, when frenzy stirred his thews,
Had hammered out on mountain top
To hold the sacred stuff he brews
That only gods may buy of him.
Now from that juice that made them wise
All those had lifted up the dim
Imaginations of their eyes,
For one that was like woman made
Before their sleepy eyelids ran
And trembling with her passion said,
'Come out and dig for a dead man,
Who's burrowing Somewhere in the ground
And mock him to his face and then
Hollo him on with horse and hound,
For he is the worst of all dead men.'
We should be dazed and terror-struck,
If we but saw in dreams that room,
Those wine-drenched eyes, and curse our luck
That empticd all our days to come.
I knew a woman none could please,
Because she dreamed when but a child
Of men and women made like these;
And after, when her blood ran wild,
Had ravelled her own story out,
And said, 'In two or in three years
I needs must marry some poor lout,'
And having said it, burst in tears.
Since, tavern comrades, you have died,
Maybe your images have stood,
Mere bone and muscle thrown aside,
Before that roomful or as good.
You had to face your ends when young -
'Twas wine or women, or some curse -
But never made a poorer song
That you might have a heavier purse,
Nor gave loud service to a cause
That you might have a troop of friends,
You kept the Muses' sterner laws,
And unrepenting faced your ends,
And therefore earned the right - and yet
Dowson and Johnson most I praise -
To troop with those the world's forgot,
And copy their proud steady gaze.
'The Danish troop was driven out
Between the dawn and dusk,' she said;
'Although the event was long in doubt.
Although the King of Ireland's dead
And half the kings, before sundown
All was accomplished.
'When this day
Murrough, the King of Ireland's son,
Foot after foot was giving way,
He and his best troops back to back
Had perished there, but the Danes ran,
Stricken with panic from the attack,
The shouting of an unseen man;
And being thankful Murrough found,
Led by a footsole dipped in blood
That had made prints upon the ground,
Where by old thorn-trees that man stood;
And though when he gazed here and there,
He had but gazed on thorn-trees, spoke,
"Who is the friend that seems but air
And yet could give so fine a stroke?"
Thereon a young man met his eye,
Who said, "Because she held me in
Her love, and would not have me die,
Rock-nurtured Aoife took a pin,
And pushing it into my shirt,
Promised that for a pin's sake
No man should see to do me hurt;
But there it's gone; I will not take
The fortune that had been my shame
Seeing, King's son, what wounds you have."
'Twas roundly spoke, but when night came
He had betrayed me to his grave,
For he and the King's son were dead.
I'd promised him two hundred years,
And when for all I'd done or said --
And these immortal eyes shed tears --
He claimed his country's need was most,
I'd saved his life, yet for the sake
Of a new friend he has turned a ghost.
What does he cate if my heart break?
I call for spade and horse and hound
That we may harry him.' Thereon
She cast herself upon the ground
And rent her clothes and made her moan:
'Why are they faithless when their might
Is from the holy shades that rove
The grey rock and the windy light?
Why should the faithfullest heart most love
The bitter sweetness of false faces?
Why must the lasting love what passes,
Why are the gods by men betrayed?'
But thereon every god stood up
With a slow smile and without sound,
And Stretching forth his arm and cup
To where she moaned upon the ground,
Suddenly drenched her to the skin;
And she with Goban's wine adrip,
No more remembering what had been.
Stared at the gods with laughing lip.
I have kept my faith, though faith was tried,
To that rock-born, rock-wandering foot,
And thc world's altered since you died,
And I am in no good repute
With the loud host before the sea,
That think sword-strokes were better meant
Than lover's music -- let that be,
So that the wandering foot's content.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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The Dog And The Cat
The dog says to the cat
'Why don't you come down from that tree
I'll only chew you up and spit you out
And make you my new treat'
The cat stretches and yawns a bit
And says, ' You only think you want me down
But I'll tell you now you stupid dog
You a mutt, you ain't no hound'
'Now you've done it! 'says the dog
'I just marked your tree! '
'When you do come down we'll know the truth
About those nine lives you keep! '
'This is this and that is that! '
Said from the tree the cat
'Stupid dog thinks he's a hound
But ain't nothing but a lazy brat! '
'All you do is lay around all day
And poop where ever you go!
At least I got some dignity
I dig myself a hole'
Now the dog was steaming mad
'You come on down from that tree! '
'I'll show you some hound found
And I'll chew on that dignity! '
About that time a young girl comes out
She spates that dog on his rump
The cat she seen and jumped right into her arms
From that tree with one big jump
'Don't scare my kitty! ' the girl said
'Or I'll just have to give you away! '
The cat now stuck her tongue out at the dog
And she did still have this to say
'You see I told you, you stupid mutt of a dog
How do you like that on your rump!
You don't even know after all this time
You've been sitting in your own dump! '
copyright 2005 Bill Simmons
aka [email protected]
poem by Bill Simmons
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Dread Beyond Death
WHY do you shudder and stare,
Grown cold in a moment and white?
The moon's at her full, and the air
Is flooded with wonderful light.
There is never a sound or a sign
Or a shadow of harm in the trees,
And the little leaves ripple and shine
At the kiss and caress of the breeze.
You tremble and shudder, my love,
As a hare at a hound's flashing fangs —
As a bird, when in azure above
A poising hawk motionless hangs.
Fear not, and the terror shall yield
To peace and to sweetness at length;
My love is a guard and a shield,
My arms are a fortress and strength.
'I fear not the hawk in the sky,
Or the hound, though his fangs flash anear;
A dread beyond death makes me sigh —
'Tis the end of our love that I fear.'
poem by Roderic Quinn
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Hounds Howl At Night (Reprise)
The hounds howl at night
Because evil is here
The hounds howl at night
For the terror that will soon begin
The hounds howl at night
For the blackness of the night
The hounds howl at night
For their love of the crescent moon
Even though it's shrouded in fog
poem by Justin Gildow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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