To find the hunter—that's the puzzle.

The trick's in that the ash or elm tree,

The game bag, the Tyrolean hat, the rifle

All morph into one single solid streak.

Direct your lamp earnestly to the sketch

And slightly change your viewing angle,

So that the trophies, rifle, and pouch

From the dark shadows suddenly untangle.

He was invented by the paper for a second,

Somewhat a madman, bit of an aesthete too,

A prisoner on the loose, jolly good fellow,

Now disappear, now disappear from view!

Now as at first the drawing is a mystery

But there was something there—the clattering of wheels

Come from the suburbs, the ash, or was it elm tree,

Something immeasurable, blinded by tears,

Shimmering in the village puddle,

To the senile hubbub of crows...

And my life would be none the worse

If it were not my own!