Shooting Season

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