An Interview with an Old Huntsman
Posted on Wednesday, April 25, 2018
In: Hunting Poetry
Written by: Peter Brook
I went to his cottage and found him reclining, Propped up in chair, he was feeble and grey. The sun had gone down, and the day was declining, The mists from the meadows fell white by the way. He welcomed a sportsman, he told me, and bade me Sit down by his side while he...