The Windhover

I caught this morning morning's minion, king- dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and

High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling

In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,

As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding Rebuffed the big wind.

My heart in

Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here Buckle!

ND the fire that breaks from thee then, a

Times told lovelier, more dangerous,

O my chevalier!

No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down

Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,

Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.