Who wakens me now to the quest? II Hushed are the whimpering winds on the hill, Dumb is the shrinking plain, And the songs that enchanted the woods are still As I shoot to the skies again! Does the blood grow black on my fierce bent beak, Does the down still cling to my claw? Who brightened these eyes for the prey they seek? Life, I follow thy law! For I am the hawk, the hawk, the hawk! Who knoweth my pitiless breast? Who watcheth me sway in the wild wind's way? Flee—flee—for I quest, I quest. III As I glide and glide with my peering head, Or swerve at a puff of smoke, Who watcheth my wings on the wind outspread, Here—gone—with an instant stroke? Who toucheth the glory of life I feel
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