THE HAWK

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.