The berries are red to the crest of the thorn;
Coronet-deep where the beech-leaves are lying
The hunters stand tense to the twang of the horn;
Where rides are refilled with the green of the mosses,
All foam-flecked and fretful their long line is strung;
You can see the white gleam as a starred forehead tosses,
You can hear the low chink as a bit-bar is flung.
The world's full of music. Hounds rustle the rover
Through brushwood and fern to a glad "Gone away!"
With a "Come along, Pilot!"—one spur-touch and over—