THE SHARPSHOOTER
Frank H. Sweet
Strange, fearful man, as shadow-like and keen,
Master of all that comes within his sight,
With eyes that seem to pierce the very night,
Watching the world about, himself unseen;
Perched in some lofty tree, among the green
And silent branches, and at such height
As seems to suit the eagle’s lonely flight;
Or else, perchance, in some deep hole, between
Gray rocks, or where some beast has made its den
Beneath a bank, where sunlight never came;
Silent and watchful, waiting for the men,
Whoever they might be—to him the same—
And patient till his aim is sure, and then
Shooting them as the hunter shoots his game.
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