A deer is bounding, forest-hidden, a hunter races forth with speed. On hill, through dale, pursuit unending, a rest I seek to quell my need. The wind, inconstant, plays and teases through boughs and leaves of restless trees, and I, inconstant, ever-driven, am seeking emptiness to please. The bow sends out a sudden arrow; the deer untouched it passes by; this craving, driving, heart's own yearning through paths of empty air will fly. I stumble, stutter, and am clumsy as feet are aching, worn and sore; the pain is like a close companion, a memory of something more. Exhaustion makes my heart grow humble as weariness impedes my pride, reminds me of my ache-filled folly, of Adam old who has not died. The legs exhausted homeward wander; in ache I wish to reach my end. The weary roads are swiftest highways and heavenward most surely bend.