The Windhover

    To Christ our Lord I caught this morning morning's minion, king-    dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding    Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing In his ecstacy! then off, off forth on swing,    As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding    Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of, the mastery of the thing! Brute beauty and valour and 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 wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,    Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.