Tiger

A poem by Alec Derwent-Hope (1907–2000)

by Alec Derwent Hope

At noon thepaper tigers roar

— Miroslav Holub

The paper tigers roar at noon;

The sun is hot, the sun is high.

They roar in chorus, not in tune,

Their plaintive, savage hunting cry.

O, when you hear them, stop your ears

And clench your lids and bite your tongue.

The harmless paper tiger bears

Strong fascination for the young.

His forest is the busy street;

His dens the forum and the mart;

He drinks no blood, he tastes no meat:

He riddles and corrupts the heart.

But when the dusk begins to creep

From tree to tree, from door to door,

The jungle tiger wakes from sleep

And utters his authentic roar.

It bursts the night and shakes the stars

Till one breaks blazing from the sky;

Then listen! If to meet it soars

Your heart’s reverberating cry,

My child, then put aside your fear:

Unbar the door and walk outside!

The real tiger waits you there;

His golden eyes shall be your guide.

And, should he spare you in his wrath,

The world and all the worlds are yours;

And should he leap thejungle path

And clasp you with his bloody jaws,

Then say, as his divine embrace

Destroys the mortal parts of you:

I too am of that royal race

Who do what we are born to do.