Where you hunt now Glows a
perpetual autumn. Gun in hand,
Golden poised ready to retrieve
You wander a corn-stubble
heaven. II. The byways of sapphire
Lead you to the luminous tavern.
The barman serves inside the
swing-doors A single malt of
delectable light. III. The pheasants
in your game-bag Give out a great
cry of joy To be feast-food for
seraphim On crystalline platters
passed down From St. Peter's
place at table. IV. You, dear one,
Seat yourself at the lowest chair,
Your hunting dog lying on a
parquet-floor Of cloud. ( not of my
hand , but truly of my heart )
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