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The bird with the dark plumes in my blood,
That never for one moment however I patched my truces
Consented to make peace with the people,
It is pitiful now to watch her pleasure In a breath of 
        tempest
Breaking the sad promise of spring.
Are these that morose hawk's wings, vaulting, a mere 
        mad swallow's,
The snow-shed peak, the violent precipice?
Poor outlaw that would not value their praise do you 
        prize their blame?
"Their liking" she said "was a long creance,
But let them be kind enough to hate me that opens the 
        sky."
It is almost as foolish my poor falcon
To want hatred as to want love; and harder to win.



Submitted by Holt

Added: 14 Apr 2002 | Last Read: 20 Jul 2008 4:16 PM | Viewed: 2154 times

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