Flee—flee—for I quest, I quest. XI Is there ever a song in all the world Shall say how the quest began With the beak and the wings that have made us kings And cruel—almost—as man? [Pg 25] The wild wind whimpers across the heath Where the sad little tufts of blue And the red-stained grey little feathers of death Flutter! Who fashioned us? Who? Who fashioned the scimitar wings of the hawk, Bent beak and arrowy breast? Who watcheth him sway in the sun's bright way? Flee—flee—for I quest, I quest. XII Linnet and woodpecker, red-cap and jay, Shriek that a doom shall fall One day, one day, on my pitiless way From the sky that is over us all;
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