HE starts, but dare not cry aloud,
Who sees the hawk beneath the cloud—
Who sees the thing he hates go by Slowly, within a measured sky,
Too arrogant to bend its flight Out of the circle of his sight.
This is his enemy, that still Should wheel beyond the farthest hill Or soar and spurn the earth, and soon Launch from the turrets of the moon Its bloody spiral, toward a ground More wild than any wood around.
It is a thing he would not own: This fierce, conjectural tyrant blown So close upon him—lest by some Relentless logic, it become Loveliness like a thunderbolt,
Consuming the dry heart’s revolt.