Still there, still alive, are the deer of my heart
In this ragged old forest where I live my days;
In the dusky-dawn clearings, they tremble and start
At my footfall, and flee down their own secret ways.

Still alive – still so breathlessly, leapingly free,
Still so still in the silence of their solemn stare;
Still my own, these mild creatures I can never be,
With my bow and my knife and these deerskins I wear.

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