I am that old, deaf hunting-dog, O Lord, And the world’s kennel holds ten thousand hounds Smarter and faster and with finer coats To hunt your hidden purpose up the wind And bell upon the trace you leave behind. But, when even they fail and lose the scent, I will keep on because I must keep on Until You utterly reveal Yourself And sink my teeth in justice soon or late. There is no more to ask of earth or fire And water only runs between my hands, But in the air, I’ll look, in the blue air, The old dog, muzzle down to the cold scent, Day after day, until the tired years Crackle beneath his feet like broken sticks And the last barren bush consumes with peace.