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The Chase
In ever closing, circling waves,
The hound, excited by the chase,
Now far, now near, around the tree,
His nose detecting on the ground,
The scent of what he does not see.
And on the plane of where he lives
A trace is all that truly is.
The world is full of wafting smells,
Subjective, vague,
No heav'ns, no hells.
But why the glory of the chase?
And how to know if near or far?
Will he who runs find that which flies?
E'er lift the nose
And raise the eyes?
Ross Olson
For the context of this poem, click here.
For a letter to one of the principals, click here.
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