With his wide crimson cloak and his cardinal's hat,
Like an emphasized flower, amazing the grass
Of the Autumn Campagna, he stands with his fat
Fingers quick on the lock of his gun and the glass

Which is tied to an owl on a perch glints and glitters
Attracting the larks and the finches that fly
In a dazzling confusion of wings and sharp twitters.
The cloud of them hides several yards of blue sky.

Behind him, two liveried grooms load fresh guns
And watch larks and goldfinches fall in dozens, quenched suns
Attesting his skill, for the Cardinal's game

Is how many small song-birds he can take as his booty
Without shooting the owl who is flustered though tame.
A rare sportsman this Cardinal in his moments off duty!

To-night at the Contessa's supper he'll boast
That she owes to his prowess the larks served on toast.