The stream is shrunk, the pool is dry, And we be comrades, thou and I; With fevered jowl and dusty flank Each jostling each along the bank; And, by one drouthy fear made still, Forgoing thought of quest or kill. Now 'neath his dam the fawn may see, The lean Pack-Wolf as cowed as he, And the tall buck, unflinching, note The fangs that tore his father's throat. The pools are shrunk, the streams are dry, And we be playmates, thou and I, Till yonder cloud, Good Hunting! Loose The rain that breaks our Water Truce.
Return to the Rudyard Kipling library , or . . . Read the next poem; How It All Began