Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.

The Falconer of God

I FLUNG my soul to the air like a falcon flying.

I said, “Wait on, wait on, while I ride below!

I shall start a heron soon

In the marsh beneath the moon—

A strange white heron rising with silver on its wings,

Rising and crying

Wordless, wondrous things;

The secret of the stars, of the world’s heart-strings

The answer to their woe.

Then stoop thou upon him, and grip and hold him so!”

My wild soul waited on as falcons hover.

I beat the reedy fens as I trampled put.

I heard the mournful loon

In the marsh beneath the moon.

And then, with feathery thunder, the bird of my desire

Broke from the cover

Flashing silver fire.

High up among the stars I saw his pinions spire.

The pale clouds gazed aghast

As my falcon stooped upon him, and gript and held him fast.

My soul dropped through the air—with heavenly plunder?—

Gripping the dazzling bird my dreaming knew?

Nay! but a piteous freight,

A dark and heavy weight

Despoiled of silver plumage, its voice forever stilled—

All of the wonder

Gone that ever filled

Its guise with glory. O bird that I have killed,

How brilliantly you flew

Across my rapturous vision when first I dreamed of you!

Yet I fling my soul on high with new endeavor,

And I ride the world below with a joyful mind.

I shall start a heron soon

In the marsh beneath the moon—

A wondrous silver heron its inner darkness fledges!

I beat forever

The fens and the sedges.

The pledge is still the same—for all disastrous pledges,

All hopes resigned!

My soul still flies above me for the quarry it shall find!