Sinopsis

The Last Cock-Pheasant Splendour, whom lately on your glowing flight Athwart the chill and cheerless winter-skies I marked and welcomed with a futile right, And then a futile left, and strained my eyes To see you so magnificently large, Sinking to rest beyond the fir-wood’s marge— Not mine, not mine the fault: despise me not In that I missed you; for the sun was down, And the dim light was all against the shot;