See an old unhappy bull, 
Sick in soul and body both, 
Slouching in the undergrowth 
Of the forest beautiful, 
Banished from the herd he led, 
Bulls and cows a thousand head. 
Cranes and gaudy parrots go 
Up and down the burning sky; 
Tree-top cats purr drowsily 
In the dim-day green below; 
And troops of monkeys, nutting, some, 
All disputing, go and come; 
And things abominable sit 
Picking offal buck or swine, 
On the mess and over it 
Burnished flies and beetles shine, 
And spiders big as bladders lie 
Under hemlocks ten foot high; 
And a dotted serpent curled 
Round and round and round a tree, 
Yellowing its greenery, 
Keeps a watch on all the world, 
All the world and this old bull 
In the forest beautiful. 
Bravely by his fall he came: 
One he led, a bull of blood 
Newly come to lustihood, 
Fought and put his prince to shame, 
Snuffed and pawed the prostrate head 
Tameless even while it bled. 
There they left him, every one, 
Left him there without a lick, 
Left him for the birds to pick, 
Left him there for carrion, 
Vilely from their bosom cast 
Wisdom, worth and love at last. 
When the lion left his lair 
And roared his beauty through the hills, 
And the vultures pecked their quills 
And flew into the middle air, 
Then this prince no more to reign 
Came to life and lived again. 
He snuffed the herd in far retreat, 
He saw the blood upon the ground, 
And snuffed the burning airs around 
Still with beevish odours sweet, 
While the blood ran down his head 
And his mouth ran slaver red. 
Pity him, this fallen chief, 
All his spendour, all his strength, 
All his body's breadth and length 
Dwindled down with shame and grief, 
Half the bull he was before, 
Bones and leather, nothing more. 
See him standing dewlap-deep 
In the rushes at the lake, 
Surly, stupid, half asleep, 
Waiting for his heart to break 
And the birds to join the flies 
Feasting at his bloodshot eyes, - 
Standing with his head hung down 
In a stupor dreaming things: 
Green savannas, jungles brown, 
Battlefields and bellowings, 
Bulls undone and lions dead 
And vultures flapping overhead. 
Dreaming things: of days he spent 
With his mother gaunt and lean 
In the valley warm and green, 
Full of baby wonderment, 
Blinking out of silly eyes 
At a hundred mysteries; 
Dreaming over once again 
How he wandered with a throng 
Of bulls and cows a thousand strong, 
Wandered on from plain to plain, 
Up the hill and down the dale, 
Always at his mother's tail; 
How he lagged behind the herd, 
Lagged and tottered, weak of limb, 
And she turned and ran to him 
Blaring at the loathly bird 
Stationed always in the skies, 
Waiting for the flesh that dies. 
Dreaming maybe of a day 
When her drained and drying paps 
Turned him to the sweets and saps, 
Richer fountains by the way, 
And she left the bull she bore 
And he looked on her no more; 
And his little frame grew stout, 
And his little legs grew strong, 
And the way was not so long; 
And his little horns came out, 
And he played at butting trees 
And boulder-stones and tortoises, 
Joined a game of knobby skulls 
With the youngsters of his year, 
All the other little bulls, 
Learning both to bruise and bear, 
Learning how to stand a shock 
Like a little bull of rock. 
Dreaming of a day less dim, 
Dreaming of a time less far, 
When the faint but certain star 
Of destiny burned clear for him, 
And a fierce and wild unrest 
Broke the quiet of his breast, 
And the gristles of his youth 
Hardened in his comely pow, 
And he came to fighting growth, 
Beat his bull and won his cow, 
And flew his tail and trampled off 
Past the tallest, vain enough, 
And curved about in spendour full 
And curved again and snuffed the airs 
As who should say Come out who dares! 
And all beheld a bull, a Bull, 
And knew that here was surely one 
That backed for no bull, fearing none. 
And the leader of the herd 
Looked and saw, and beat the ground, 
And shook the forest with his sound, 
Bellowed at the loathly bird 
Stationed always in the skies, 
Wating for the flesh that dies. 
Dreaming, this old bull forlorn, 
Surely dreaming of the hour 
When he came to sultan power, 
And they owned him master-horn, 
Chiefest bull of all among 
Bulls and cows a thousand strong. 
And in all the tramping herd 
Not a bull that barred his way, 
Not a cow that said him nay, 
Not a bull or cow that erred 
In the furnace of his look 
Dared a second, worse rebuke; 
Not in all the forest wide, 
Jungle, thicket, pasture, fen, 
Not another dared him then, 
Dared him and again defied; 
Not a sovereign buck or boar 
Came a second t