He saw, from the cover edge, the valley Go trooping down with its droops of sally To the brimming river’s lipping bend, And a light in the inn at Water’s End. He heard the owl go hunting by And the shriek of the mouse the owl made die, And the purr of the owl as he tore the red Strings from between his claws and fed; The smack of joy of the horny lips Marbled green with the blobby strips. He saw the farms where the dogs were barking, Cold Crendon Court and Copsecote Larking; The fault with the spring as bright as gleed, Green-slash-laced with water-weed. A glare in the sky still marked the town, Though all folk slept and the blinds were down, The street lamps watched the empty square, The night-cat sang his evil there. * * * * * The fox’s nose tipped up and round, Since smell is a part of sight and sound. Delicate smells were drifting by, The sharp nose flaired them heedfully; Partridges in the clover stubble, Crouched in a ring for the stoat to nubble. Rabbit bucks beginning to box; A scratching place for the pheasant cocks, A hare in the dead grass near the drain, And another smell like the spring again. * * * * * A faint rank taint like April coming, It touched his heart till his blood went drumming, For somewhere out by Ghost Heath Stubs Was a roving vixen wanting cubs. Over the valley, floating faint On a warmth of windflaw, came the taint; He cocked his ears, he upped his brush, And he went upwind like an April thrush. * * * * * By the Roman Road to Braiches Ridge, Where the fallen willow makes a bridge, Over the brook by White Hart’s Thorn To the acres thin with pricking corn, Over the sparse green hair of the wheat, By the Clench Brook Mill at Clench Brook Leat, Through Cowfoot Pastures to Nonely Stevens, And away to Poltrewood St. Jevons. Past Tott Hill Down all snaked with meuses, Past Clench St. Michael and Naunton Crucis, Past Howle’s Oak Farm where the raving brain Of a dog who heard him foamed his chain; Then off, as the farmer’s window opened, Past Stonepits Farm to Upton Hope End, Over short sweet grass and worn flint arrows And the three dumb hows of Tencombe Barrows. And away and away with a rolling scramble, Through the sally and up the bramble, With a nose for the smells the night wind carried, And his red fell clean for being married; For clicketting time and Ghost Heath Wood Had put the violet in his blood. * * * * *