The Hunt

Wild stream the clouds, and the fresh wind is singing, Red is the dawn, and the world white with rime,— Music, O music! The hunter’s horn ringing! Over the hilltop the mounted men climb. Flashing of scarlet, and glitter, and jingle, The deep bay, the rhythm of hoof and of cry,— Echo, O echo! The winds rush and mingle! Halloo, view halloo! And the Hunt has swept by. Stay! All the morning is hushed and is sober, Bare is the hilltop and sad as its wont,— Out of the ghost of a long-dead October Blows as the dust blows the ghost of the Hunt!