Wyattite

The chase is not the purpose of my hunt;
It is possession, and the present joy
Of having what I sought. I do not front;
No, I am frank: the chase begins to cloy
When that which is pursued flies far ahead
And even the loud braying of the hounds
Falters from hearing. I prefer instead
That which comes after all, and still abounds
When memories of hunting all have faded.
I love to have, not seek, although pursuit
Was not unpleasant. Do not think me jaded
With the chase; I rather seek its root:
The hope to have, rather than pursue
For having got, there is much more to do.