Shooting Season

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.