BIRDS 01^ THE POET 



of his works, he is wide awake when he is out in 

 the open with " Reynard, the Fox," not only to 

 the most intimate details of the business in hand 

 but to every passing impression that the fields and 

 woods may suggest. True, in a poem of this 

 kind there can be no room for a finely-spun 

 philosophy of Nature, nor for an elaborately 

 worded description of her aspects, but in their 

 place we get vivid glimpses of the things them- 

 selves that abide in the mind even as though our 

 own eye had rested upon them. Never may we 

 forget that the writer is riding for the most part 

 hell-for-leather, or at best, permitting a tired 

 horse to draw breath at the woodside. 



' ' The wood stood silent in its host 



Of halted trees, all winter bare. 



The boughs like veins that suck the air, 



stretched tense, the last leaf scarcely stirred, 



There came no song from any bird." 



Now and again as the rider crashes through the 

 wet, tangled briars, he disturbs a lurking pheasant ; 

 and hares and rabbits vanish like grey shadows 

 from his horse's hoofs. 



" The shaken brambles scattered drops, 

 stray pheasants kukkered out of copse, 

 A blue, uneasy jay was chacking, 

 A swearing sound Uke tearing sacking." 



Once a glimpse of partridges is caught 



" In a clover stubble, 

 Crouched in a ring for a stoat to nubble." 



And again a little party of long-tailed tits call 

 attention to their presence by their tinkling notes : 



" On the wind-bare thorn some long-tails prinking. 

 Cried sweet as though wind-blown glass were chinking." 



And later 



" A kestrel cruising o'er the meadow. 

 Watched the hunt gallop on his shadow." 



