Deep in the jungle vast and dim,
 That knew not a white man's feet,
 I smelt the odour of sun-warmed fur,
 Musky, savage, and sweet.

 Far it was from the huts of men
 And the grass where Sambur feed;
 I threw a stone at a Kadapu tree
 That bled as a man might bleed.

 Scent of fur and colour of blood:--
 And the long dead instincts rose,
 I followed the lure of my season's mate,--
 And flew, bare-fanged, at my foes.

          *        *        *

 Pale days: and a league of laws
 Made by the whims of men.
 Would I were back with my furry cubs
 In the dusk of a jungle den.

Resending this, since it doesn’t appear to have made it through the first time…

This is one of those poems that it is easy to criticise on the grounds that it is unoriginal and even cliche-ridden, saying nothing new and saying it in no particularly new way. However, to do that is to miss the sheer pleasure of the poem, the fact that, cliched or not, it works, conjuring up a rich, vivid, and gratifyingly visceral series of images reminiscent of Kipling or Flecker, and enjoyable for many of the same reasons. Nothing much by way of analysis or criticism to offer today - just one of those times when I step back and run a poem for no better reason than that I found the imagery appealing.

— Martin

Links

Wikipedia article:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Laurence_Hope

Adela Florence Nicolson (née Cory) (9 April 1865- 1904)