Grey-legged old cocks and hens sedate in age,
Marching with jerks as though they moved on springs,
With sidelong hate in round eyes red with rage,
And shouldered muskets clipped by jealous wings,
Then an array of horns and stupid things:
Sheep on a hill with harebells, hare for dinner.
'Hare.' A slow darkness covered up the sinner.
'But little time is right hand fain of blow.'
Only a second changes life to death;
Hate ends before the pulses cease to go,