This page is specially prepared for hunting poems. You can reach newest and popular hunting poems from this page. You can vote and comment on the hunting poems you read.
A Busy Man
This crowded life of God's good giving
No man has relished more than I;
I've been so goldarned busy living
I've never had the time to die.
What of the hunting, hunter bold?
Brother, the watch was long and cold.
What of the quarry ye went to kill?
Brother, he crops in the jungle still.
Song Of Myself
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
But see! . . . the body does not sink;
It rides upon the tide
(A starbeam on the dagger's haft),
With staring eyes and wide . . .
The Old Huntsman
I've never ceased to curse the day I signed
A seven years' bargain for the Golden Fleece.
'Twas a bad deal all round; and dear enough
It cost me, what with my daft management,
In The Garden
Aylmer's Garden, near the Lake. LAURENCE RABY and ESTELLE.
Come to the bank where the boat is moor'd to the willow-tree low;
Adam Lindsay Gordon
Venus And Adonis
Even as the sun with purple-coloured face
Had ta'en his last leave of the weeping morn,
Rose-cheeked Adonis hied him to the chase;
Hunting he loved, but love he laughed to scorn.
The mountain held the town as in a shadow
I saw so much before I slept there once:
I noticed that I missed stars in the west,
Where its black body cut into the sky.
Life is a Painting,
Which is Enchanting,
So let's do the Hunting,
The Waste Land
‘Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis
vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent:
Sibylla ti theleis; respondebat illa: apothanein thelo.'
T. S. Eliot
White founts falling in the courts of the sun,
And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run;
There is laughter like the fountains in that face of all men feared,
It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard,
G. K. Chesterton
When will that day dawn, Mother;
When the One I took birth for
Holds me to His heart with deathless love?
I long for the bliss of divine union.
Endymion: Book Iv
Muse of my native land! loftiest Muse!
O first-born on the mountains! by the hues
Of heaven on the spiritual air begot:
Long didst thou sit alone in northern grot,
The White Stag
I ha' seen them 'mid the clouds on the heather.
Lo! they pause not for love nor for sorrow,
Yet their eyes are as the eyes of a maid to her lover,
When the white hart breaks his cover
Does It Matter?
Does it matter?-losing your leg? …
For people will always be kind,
And you need not show that you mind
When the others come in after hunting
World! to arms!
Do you shrink?
What! shrink when the hoofs of the Cossack are crushing
The bosom of mother, the tonsure of priest,
Everybody loved Chick Lorimer in our town.
Everybody loved her.
So we all love a wild girl keeping a hold
Hi! Handsome hunting man,
Fire your little gun,
Bang! Now that animal
Is dead and dumb and done.
Walter De La Mare
Desolate and lone
All night long on the lake
Where fog trails and mist creeps,
The whistle of a boat
THE FLUTTER of blue pigeon's wings
Under a river bridge
Hunting a clean dry arch,
A corner for a sleep-
Kaspar's Song In 'varda'
Eyes aloft over dangerous places,
The children follow where Psyche flies,
And, in the sweat of their upturned faces,
Slash with a net at the empty skies.
Salut Au Monde
O TAKE my hand, Walt Whitman!
Such gliding wonders! such sights and sounds!
Such join'd unended links, each hook'd to the next!
Each answering all--each sharing the earth with all.
'Twas in a pub just off the Strand
When I was in my cups,
There passed a bloke with in his hand
Two tiny puling pups;
You ought to know Mr. Mistoffelees!
The Original Conjuring Cat-
(There can be no doubt about that).
Please listen to me and don't scoff. All his
T. S. Eliot
The Green Knight's Farewell To Fancy
n my hat full harebrainedly, thy flowers did I wear:
Too late I find (at last), thy fruits are nothing worth,
Thy blossoms fall and fade full fast, though bravery bring them forth.
By thee I hoped always, in deep delights to dwell,
Thou art not, Penshurst, built to envious show
Of touch, or marble; nor canst boast a row
Of polished pillars, or a roof of gold;
Thou hast no lantern, whereof tales are told,
CAPTAIN Dobbin, having retired from the South Seas
In the dumb tides of , with a handful of shells,
A few poisoned arrows, a cask of pearls,
And five thousand pounds in the colonial funds,
The Peace Of God
The seeking souls, by baleful fires made blind,
Torn by entrapping brambles, thirsty and mad,
Hear on the lonely waste the stealthy pad
And half-held breath of glaring beasts behind;
John Le Gay Brereton
"Oh where ha'e ye been, Lord Randall, my son!
And where ha'e ye been, my handsome young man!"
"I ha'e been to the wild wood: mother, make my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down."
Waken, lords and ladies gay,
On the mountain dawns the day;
All the jolly chase is here
With hawk and horse and hunting-spear,
Sir Walter Scott
The Odyssey: Book 17
When the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared,
Telemachus bound on his sandals and took a strong spear that suited
his hands, for he wanted to go into the city. “Old friend,” said he to
the swineherd, “I will now go to the town and show myself to my
The stars come out; the fragrant shadows fall
About a dreaming garden still and sweet,
I hear the unseen bats above me bleat
Among the ghostly moths their hunting call,
C. S. Lewis
A name of the Year. Some say the word means a march of wolves,
which wolves, running in single file, are the Months of the Year.
Others say the word means the path of the light.
She sat on a shelf,
her breasts two bellies
on her poked-out belly,
on which the navel looked
As I was walking all alane
I heard twa corbies making a mane;
The tane unto the t'other say,
"Where sall we gang and dine to-day?"
A night the half-moon was like a dancing-girl,
No, like a drunkard's last half-dollar
Shoved on the polished bar of the eastern hill-range,
It is full winter now: the trees are bare,
Save where the cattle huddle from the cold
Beneath the pine, for it doth never wear
The autumn's gaudy livery whose gold
Now Chil the Kite brings home the night
That Mang the Bat sets free--
The herds are shut in byre and hut,
For loosed till dawn are we.