He will watch the hawk with an indifferent eye Or pitifully;
Nor on those eagles that so feared him, now Will strain his brow;
Weapons men use, stone, sling and strong-thewed bow He will not know.
This aristocrat, superb of all instinct, With death close linked,
Had paced the enormous cloud, almost had won War on the sun;
Till now, like Icarus mid-ocean-frowned, Hands, wings are found.
