October—An Etching

There where the woodcock his long bill among the alders
Forward in level flight propels,
Tussocks of faded grass are islands in the pasture swamp
Where the small foot, if it be light as well, can pass
Dry-shod to rising ground.

Not so the boot of the hunter.
Chilly and black and halfway to the knee
Is the thick water there, heavy wading,
Uneven to the step; there the more cautious ones,
Pausing for a moment, break their guns.
There the white setter ticked with black
Sets forth with silky feathers on the bird’s track
And wet to his pink skin and half his size comes back.

Cows are pastured there; they have made a path among the alders.
By now the keeper’s boy has found
The chalk of the woodcock on the trampled ground.