 | Poems and Sonnets |  |
49
THE HAWK.
I
A poet loved a hawk—sweet, wild-eyed, strongTo flutter from the staying of a hand,
And, subtle, soon a silken lure he planned,
And wove in vari-coloured threads of song,
Now gold, now crimson, and his work was long
And wearisome, but still the thought sustained
His soul, “When once my falcon I have gained,
How we will soar above the vulgar throng!
For she shall raise me; I will teach my bird
The art of singing, she shall show me how
To beat the azure wave with windy brow,
In soft ethereal heights as yet unstirred
Save by her sweet brown flying, shall be heard
The added pinion of her poet now.”
50
II
So mused he; and his silken lure he brought,And trembled as his fingers sought the wrist
His passion craved, imperious, to have kissed,
But then his labour had been all for nought;
The falcon's crest was eager, and he thought
“I have my beauty safe with one more twist,
To carry on a closed triumphant fist,
My green-eyed bird, my darling, fairly caught!
One more twist,” as he stooped to tie the thread,
(Gold beads of many sonnets strung thereon)
A rustle and a shiver—overhead
The laughing dark eye of the falcon shone,
“You thought you had me safe, but I am gone,
Good-bye my poet, love your lure instead.”
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