I will not walk on that road again,
it is like a story one hesitates to begin.
I found myself alone,
the fur close around my face, my feet
soft and quiet in the frost.
Then, with a cold, rushing sound,
came a shadow like the death-angel
with buffeting wings,
his talons gripping my shoulder,
the bright beak tearing and sinking...
Then, then I was falling, swept
into the deepening red sack of a voice:
"Little rabbit, you are bleeding again;
with his old fire-born passion
the Goshawk feeds on your timid heart."
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