This fellowship of straight riders, and hard men
To hounds—the flyers of the hunt.
I think
That we shall never more in days to come
Hold cheery talk of hounds and horses (each
Praising his own the most) shall steal away
Through brake and coppice-wood, or side by side
Breast the sharp bullfinch and deep-holding dyke,
Sweep through the uplands, skim the vale below,
And leave the land behind us like a dream.