The Bull

See an old unhappy bull,     Sick in soul and body both,     Slouching in the undergrowth     Of the forest beautiful,     Banished from the herd he led,     Bulls and cows a thousand head.     Cranes and gaudy parrots go     Up and down the burning sky;     Tree-top cats purr drowsily     In the dim-day green below;     And troops of monkeys, nutting, some,     All disputing, go and come;     And things abominable sit     Picking offal buck or swine,     On the mess and over it     Burnished flies and beetles shine,     And spiders big as bladders lie     Under hemlocks ten foot high;     And a dotted serpent curled     Round and round and round a tree,     Yellowing its greenery,     Keeps a watch on all the world,     All the world and this old bull     In the forest beautiful.     Bravely by his fall he came:     One he led, a bull of blood     Newly come to lustihood,     Fought and put his prince to shame,     Snuffed and pawed the prostrate head     Tameless even while it bled.     There they left him, every one,     Left him there without a lick,     Left him for the birds to pick,     Left him there for carrion,     Vilely from their bosom cast     Wisdom, worth and love at last.     When the lion left his lair     And roared his beauty through the hills,     And the vultures pecked their quills     And flew into the middle air,     Then this prince no more to reign     Came to life and lived again.     He snuffed the herd in far retreat,     He saw the blood upon the ground,     And snuffed the burning airs around     Still with beevish odours sweet,     While the blood ran down his head     And his mouth ran slaver red.     Pity him, this fallen chief,     All his splendour, all his strength,     All his body's breadth and length     Dwindled down with shame and grief,     Half the bull he was before,     Bones and leather, nothing more.     See him standing dewlap-deep     In the rushes at the lake,     Surly, stupid, half asleep,     Waiting for his heart to break     And the birds to join the flies     Feasting at his bloodshot eyes, -     Standing with his head hung down     In a stupor, dreaming things:     Green savannas, jungles brown,     Battlefields and bellowings,     Bulls undone and lions dead     And vultures flapping overhead.     Dreaming things: of days he spent     With his mother gaunt and lean     In the valley warm and green,     Full of baby wonderment,     Blinking out of silly eyes     At a hundred mysteries;     Dreaming over once again     How he wandered with a throng     Of bulls and cows a thousand strong,     Wandered on from plain to plain,     Up the hill and down the dale,     Always at his mother's tail;     How he lagged behind the herd,     Lagged and tottered, weak of limb,     And she turned and ran to him     Blaring at the loathly bird     Stationed always in the skies,     Waiting for the flesh that dies.     Dreaming maybe of a day     When her drained and drying paps     Turned him to the sweets and saps,     Richer fountains by the way,     And she left the bull she bore     And he looked to her no more;     And his little frame grew stout,     And his little legs grew strong,     And the way was not so long;     And his little horns came out,     And he played at butting trees     And boulder-stones and tortoises,     Joined a game of knobby skulls     With the youngsters of his year,     All the other little bulls,     Learning both to bruise and bear,     Learning how to stand a shock     Like a little bull of rock.     Dreaming of a day less dim,     Dreaming of a time less far,     When the faint but certain star     Of destiny burned clear for him,     And a fierce and wild unrest     Broke the quiet of his breast,     And the gristles of his youth     Hardened in his comely pow,     And he came to fighting growth,     Beat his bull and won his cow,     And flew his tail and trampled off     Past the tallest, vain enough,     And curved about in splendour full     And curved again and snuffed the airs     As who should say Come out who dares!     And all beheld a bull, a Bull,     And knew that here was surely one     That backed for no bull, fearing none.     And the leader of the herd     Looked and saw, and beat the ground,     And shook the forest with his sound,     Bellowed at the loathly bird     Stationed always in the skies,     Waiting for the flesh that dies.     Dreaming, this old bull forlorn,     Surely dreaming of the hour     When he came to sultan power,     And they owned him master-horn,     Chiefest bull of all among     Bulls and cows a thousand strong.     And in all the tramping herd     Not a bull that barred his way,     Not a cow that said him nay,     Not a bull or cow that erred     In the furnace of his look     Dared a second, worse rebuke;     Not in all the forest wide,     Jungle, thicket, pasture, fen,     Not another dared him then,     Dared him and again defied;     Not a sovereign buck or boar     Came a second time for more.     Not a serpent that survived     Once the terrors of his hoof     Risked a second time reproof,     Came a second time and lived,     Not a serpent in its skin     Came again for discipline;     Not a leopard bright as flame,     Flashing fingerhooks of steel,     That a wooden tree might feel,     Met his fury once and came     For a second reprimand,     Not a leopard in the land.     Not a lion of them all,     Not a lion of the hills,     Hero of a thousand kills,     Dared a second fight and fall,     Dared that ram terrific twice,     Paid a second time the price ...     Pity him, this dupe of dream,     Leader of the herd again     Only in his daft old brain,     Once again the bull supreme     And bull enough to bear the part     Only in his tameless heart.     Pity him that he must wake;     Even now the swarm of flies     Blackening his bloodshot eyes     Bursts and blusters round the lake,     Scattered from the feast half-fed,     By great shadows overhead.     And the dreamer turns away     From his visionary herds     And his splendid yesterday,     Turns to meet the loathly birds     Flocking round him from the skies,     Waiting for the flesh that dies.