Читать книгу Belford's Magazine, Vol. II, No. 3, February 1889 - Various - Страница 10

An eagle drifting to the skies

To gild her wing in sunset dies,

To float into the golden,

To swing and sway in broad-winged might,

To toss and heel in free-born right,

High o'er the gray crags olden.

A dark bird reaching on aloft,

Till far adown her rugged croft

Lies limned in misty tracing —

Till, riding on in easy pride,

Her cloud-wet wings are ruby pied,

Are meshed in amber lacing.

An eagle dropping to her cave

On dizzy wing through riven air,

A bolt from heaven slanted;

A startled mother, arrow-winged,

A mountain copestone, vapor-ringed,

An eyry danger-haunted.

An eagle slanting from the skies

To stain her breast in crimson dyes

Beneath the gilt and golden;

A shred of smoke – the gray lead's might —

A folded wing – the dead bird's right —

Abreast the gray crags olden.

The blush light fades along the west,

The night mist rolls to crag, to crest,

To cowl the ghostly mountain;

Black shadows hush the eyry's calls;

Below, a broad brown pinion falls —

The last light from the fountain.