The Bird With The Dark Plumes

The bird with the dark plumes in my blood,

That never for one moment however I patched my

Consented to make peace with the people,

It is pitiful now to watch her pleasure In a breath of

Breaking the sad promise of spring.

Are these that morose hawk's wings, vaulting, a mere        mad swallow's,

The snow-shed peak, the violent precipice?

Poor outlaw that would not value their praise do you        prize their blame?"Their liking" she said "was a long creance,

But let them be kind enough to hate me that opens the        sky."It is almost as foolish my poor

To want hatred as to want love; and harder to win.