We know where deepest lies the snow, <br />And where the frost-winds keenest blow, <br /> O'er every mountain's brow, <br />We long have known and learnt to bear <br />The wandering outlaw's toil and care, <br />But where we late were hunted, there <br /> Our foes are hunted now. <br />We have their princely homes, and they <br />To our wild haunts are chased away, <br /> Dark woods, and desert caves. <br />And we can range from hill to hill, <br />And chase our vanquished victors still; <br />Small respite will they find until <br /> They slumber in their graves. <br /> <br />But I would rather be the hare, <br />That crouching in its sheltered lair <br /> Must start at every sound; <br />That forced from cornfields waving wide <br />Is driven to seek the bare hillside, <br />Or in the tangled copse to hide, <br /> Than be the hunter's hound.<br /><br />Anne Brontë<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/song-56/
