 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
59
SHADOWS
The imperious soul that bows to no man's will,
That takes by right the service of his kind,
Floats in free air, unchastened, unconfined,
Strikes what he lists, enslaving, spoiling still.
That takes by right the service of his kind,
Floats in free air, unchastened, unconfined,
Strikes what he lists, enslaving, spoiling still.
But when he falls upon the common ground,
Swift, swift the visions falter: his brave wing
Sustains him not; and that swift shadowy thing
Runs from the darkness, and enwraps him round.
Swift, swift the visions falter: his brave wing
Sustains him not; and that swift shadowy thing
Runs from the darkness, and enwraps him round.
So you may see the hovering kestrel beat
Over the crag, slow-circling, pinions stiff,
Then fall through wind and sunshine, check his flight,
And as he wheels to perch below the cliff,
His shadow fleets across the limestone white,
And closes with him, settling at his feet.
Over the crag, slow-circling, pinions stiff,
Then fall through wind and sunshine, check his flight,
And as he wheels to perch below the cliff,
His shadow fleets across the limestone white,
And closes with him, settling at his feet.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |