Early in spring the little General came

Across the sound, bringing the island death,

And suddenly a place without a name,

And like the pious ritual of a faith,

Hunter and quarry in the boundless trap,

The white smoke curling from the silver gun,

The feather curling in the hunter’s cap,

And clouds of feathers floating in the sun,

While down the birds came in a deafening shower,

Wing-hurricane, and the cattle fled in fear.

Up on the hill a remnant of a tower

Had watched that single scene for many a year,

Weaving a wordless tale where all were gathered

(Hunter and quarry and watcher and fabulous field),

A sylvan war half human and half feathered,

Perennial emblem painted on the shield

Held up to cow a never-conquered land

Fast in the little General’s fragile hand.