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