The jungle fear

When sunset lights are burning low,While tents are pitched and camp-fires glow,Steals o'er us, ere the stars appear,The furtive sense of Jungle Fear.

For when the dusk is falling fastStill, as throughout the Ages past,The stealthy beasts of prey ariseAnd prowl around with hungry eyes.

Though safe beside the fire I sitAnd stretch contented hands to it,Though all the cheerful camping-ground,With men and arms, is close around,

I feel the Jungle very nearAnd shiver with instinctive fear.For in some hidden cells of meStirs the ancestral memory

Of times when from the beasts of preyAt this same hour men slunk awayTo seek their caves, and thrilled to hearThe red-eyed Panthers lurking near,

Or the weird, melancholy howlOf famished packs of Wolves a-prowl.Long centuries have since passed byBut still these instincts will not die.

And even men in Cities pent,Who never slept beneath a tent,Have said that they at twilight feelThe same strange fear across them steal.

Hid in our being, dim and deep,The terrors of past perils sleep,A heritage obscure and vastFrom Man's unfathomable past.

Each twilight, when the sun burns downIn desert waste, or crowded town,When shadows fall and night draws nearThe dusk brings back the Jungle Fear.