Life of a far off ancient day

In an hour unhooded her eyes;

In the time of the budding of one green spray

She was wise as the stars are wise.

Brown flower of the tree of the hawk, the hawk,

On the old elm's burgeoning breast,

She watcheth me sway in the wild wind's way;

Flee—flee—for I quest, I quest.

VII

Spirit and sap of the sweet swift Spring,

Fire of our island soul,

Burn in her breast and pulse in her wing

While the endless ages roll;

Avatar—she—of the perilous pride

That plundered the golden West,

Her glance is a sword, but it sweeps too wide

For a rumour to trouble her rest.

She goeth her glorious way, the hawk,

She nurseth her brood alone;

She will not swoop for an owlet's whoop,

 Prev. P 45/792 next