The Captive Lion

A scent, a sound borne on the drifting breeze,

Has touched a chord of memory in his brain.

He moves out from the shadow of the trees,

Snuffing the air. . . . And swiftly, once again

Treading the forest paths, each nerve athrill,

He roars his hunger till the jungle cowers

Silent with fear. He crouches; springs; his kill

Drips its red blood among the scarlet flowers. . . .

He flings himself against the clanging bars

Roaring his impotence and misery.

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His knotted tail lashes his flanks; he jars

The noonday silence with his agony.

And on the rocks his zoo-born mate half lies

And watches him with puzzled wondering eyes.