So oft about me I can see the ancient art of Falconry; From resting on the rigid wrist, the falcon flies And strikes his quarry till it dies. The hooded bird unleashed and free Blinks at the light of day and quicker than a winged dart Is on his prey. Its fury past, the falcon then returns To don its hood and leash, and wait its master's whim -- To sit or fly at his command; to serve but him. So like ourselves, our passions and our moods Are held in leash, are covered with a hood: One liberated flight and lo! we have destroyed So much of good. Perhaps we call the wild bird back To rest again upon the arm, But some emotion or some love was stricken to its death Beyond all harm. Swift falcon, wilt thou never die with falconry Thy outlived art? Why dost thou rest with hooded head So near my heart! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A BANJO SONG by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON FAREWELL TO FARGO: SELLING THE HOUSE by KAREN SWENSON THE HOUSEKEEPER by ROBERT FROST WESSEX HEIGHTS by THOMAS HARDY IMAGES: 5 by RICHARD ALDINGTON AFTER THE PLAY by HAMILTON FISH ARMSTRONG STRANGE PERSPECTIVE by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |