Dry August Burned

Dry August burned. A harvest hare Limp on the kitchen table lay, Its fur blood-blubbered, eye astare, While a small child that stood near by Wept out her heart to see it there. Sharp came the clop of hoofs, the clang Of dangling chain, voices that rang Out like a leveret she ran, To feast her glistening bird-clear eyes On a team of field artillery Gay, to manaeuvres, thudding by. Spur and gun and limber plate Flashed in the sun. Alert, elate, Noble horses, foam at lip, Harness, stirrup, holster, whip, She watched the sun-tanned soldiery, Till dust-white hedge had hidden away — Its din into a rumour thinned — The laughing, jolting, wild array: And then — the wonder and tumult gone — Stood nibbling a green leaf, alone, Her dark eyes, dreaming. . . . She turned, and ran, Elf-like, into the house again. The hare had vanished. . . . ' Mother, ' she said, Her tear-stained cheek now flushed with red, ' Please, may I go and see it skinned? '