Classic Poem

Wounded, the steel-ribbed bird dipped to the sea,
Its vast wings twisted, struggling with the air
That would not bear it up, and heavily
Struck the still water, sleeping idly where
The gold-arched noon had lulled it into dream.
So, there was foaming tumult and the fret
Of waves on heated steel, then silver steam
That hung, like fallen cloud, where they had met.
And that small, striving thing that fought away,
Free of the wreckage, did he, dying, hear
The waters murmur of another day,
A noon, now long ago, yet strangely near;
The waters telling drowsily of one
Who with his wings of wax dared seek the sun?