By W.H. Davies
- Thou dost not fly, thou art not perched,
- The air is all around:
- What is it that can keep thee set,
- From falling to the ground?
- The concentration of thy mind
- Supports thee in the air;
- As thou dost watch the small young birgs,
- With such a deadly care.
- My mind has such a hawk as thou,
- It is an evil mood;
- It comes when there's no cause for grief,
- And on my joys doth brood.
- Then do I see my life in parts;
- The earth receives my bones,
- The common air absorbs my mind---
- It knows not flowers from stones.
Keith's poetry archive.
Keith's favorite poems.