A queen's fair fingers have drawn the hood

And tossed her aloft in the blue,

A white hand eager for needless blood;

I hunt for the needs of two.

Yet I am the hawk, the hawk, the hawk!

Who knoweth my pitiless breast?

Who watcheth me sway in the sun's bright way?

Flee—flee—for I quest, I quest.

X

Who fashioned her wide and splendid eyes

That have stared in the eyes of kings?

With a silken twist she was looped to their wrist:

She has clawed at their jewelled rings!

Who flung her first thro' the crimson dawn

To pluck him a prey from the skies,

When the love-light shone upon lake and lawn

In the valleys of Paradise?

Who fashioned the hawk, the hawk, the hawk,

Bent beak and pitiless breast?

Who watcheth him sway in the wild wind's way?

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