I hunt the wolf that pads the snow
whenever sleep has closed my eyes;
the forest-track, the fields, I know,
and frosted stars that grace the skies.
Through tangled brush and mead I go
to seek the beast.
I track what never can be caught,
what moves with swiftness like the gale;
through snow, on mountains God has wrought,
it speeds with wolf-limbs coated pale;
the snow is crystal-fractal thought
and I the beast.