The Hawk
'Call down the hawk from the air;Let him be hooded or cagedTill the yellow eye has grown mild,For larder and spit are bare,The old cook enraged,The scullion gone wild.'
'I will not be clapped in a hood,Nor a cage, nor alight upon wrist,Now I have learnt to be proudHovering over the woodIn the broken mistOr tumbling cloud.'
'What tumbling cloud did you cleave,Yellow-eyed hawk of the mind,Last evening? that I, who had satDumbfounded before a knave,Should give to my friendA pretence of wit.'
Sign in to like, rate and collect poems, and keep track of what you've read.