Read: The Werewolf Epic

The Addition:

The hunt fulfilled, venison won, he sheds
well-practiced discipline, the manner of
his craft, and in soliloquy thus spoke:

O deer, in sure movements how like a poem,
when safe, secure, graceful you strut the earth,
yet in your fears transformed, sublimity
abandoned then—and what should I expect
from hunted beasts?—in motions wild you
helplessly bound and leap as if dancing
to some unheard mad tune, perhaps carried
upon Pan’s flute. I know it not but by
this disordered escape, your god’s rhythm
which marshals all the game I’ve ever shot.
By shaft impaled, a third state I induce,
that deepest sleep where all our courses end,
and here regained, some of your lost beauty
returns. More like yourself in death than fear,
thy dreamless rest remembers some of what
my presence stole, endearing gentleness.
A likeness I have seen in womankind,
who tout virtuous modesty, and yet
when hunted lose these charms as if better
device for catching men: dancing to strange
music my heart hears not. So are some caught.