IN
HE
TH OF
The whole countryside deployed on the hills of heather, an armywith banners,
The beaters whoop the grouse to the butts.
Three gentlemen fling up their guns and the frightened covey isa few wings fewer;
Then grooms approach with the panniered horses.
The gray old moorland silence has closed like water and coveredthe gunshots.
Wave on wave goes the moor to the
Circle of the sky; the cairn on the slope names an old battle andbeyond
Broad gray rocks the grave-marks of clans.
Blond Celtic warriors lair in the sky-line barrows, down towardthe
Stand the tall stones of the Danish captains.
We dead that handled weapons and hunted in earnest, we olddead have
Three little living gentlemen
With a bitter flavor in the grin of amusement, uneasily rememberingour
Old sports and delights.
It is better to be dust.
