The Falcon and the Dove


This high-caught hooded Reason broods upon my wrist,
Fetter'd by a so tenuous leash of steel.
We are bound for the myrtle marshes, many leagues away,
And have a fair expectation of quarry.


Over the laggard dove, inclining to green boscage
Hovers this intentional doom — till the unsullied sky receives
A precipitation of shed feathers
And the swifter fall of wounded wings.


Will the plain aye echo with that loud hullallo!
Or retain an impress of our passage?
We have caught Beauty in a wild foray
And now the falcon is hooded and comforted away.
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