The Windhover

                 To Christ our Lord

    I caught this morning morning's minion, king-
            dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dáwn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
            Of the rólling level úndernéath him steady áir, & stríding
    High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
    In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
            As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl & gliding
            Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
    Stirred for a bird, -- the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!

    Brute beauty & valour & act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
            Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
    Times told lovelier, more dangerous, o my chevalier!
            No wónder of it: shéer plód makes plóugh down síllion
    Shine, & blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
            Fall, gáll themsélves, & gásh góld-vermílion.