You know the kind of day – a raw wind and a February sun that stings your eyes without warming your face. I was on the bridleway’s most exposed point when the hare surprised me. Concealed in the long grass beside the path, it suddenly rose on long legs, and lumbered away through the winter wheat. Head low, body cambered, its amber eyes seemed larger than ever. Giving a sudden, stunning leap, the hare’s stretched length of golden fur and sinew shone in the sharp clarity of the late winter light. I never see a hare without being deeply touched. In fact, a hare saved the life of one of the greatest poets and hymn writers of the eighteenth century. William Cowper, losing his reason, was committed to an asylum. He had tried suicide at least three times, and a fourth attempt w