‘CALL down the hawk from the air;    
Let him be hooded or caged    
Till the yellow eye has grown mild,    
For larder and spit are bare,    
The old cook enraged,      
The scullion gone wild.’    
 
‘I will not be clapped in a hood,    
Nor a cage, nor alight upon wrist,    
Now I have learnt to be proud    
Hovering over the wood  
In the broken mist    
Or tumbling cloud.’    
 
‘What tumbling cloud did you cleave,    
Yellow-eyed hawk of the mind,    
Last evening? that I, who had sat  
Dumbfounded before a knave,    
Should give to my friend    
A pretence of wit.’

The Wild Swans at Coole. 1919.

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