MANY roses in the wind
Are tapping at the
window-sash.
A hawk
is in the sky; his wings
Slowly begin to plash.
The roses with the west wind
rapping
Are torn
away, and a splash
Of red goes down the billowing air.
Still hangs the hawk, with the whole
sky moving
Past him
— only a wing-beat proving
The will that holds him
there.
The daisies in the grass are
bending,
The hawk
has dropped, the wind is spending
All the roses, and unending
Rustle of leaves washes out the
rending
Cry of a
bird.
A red rose goes on the wind. —
Ascending
The hawk
his wind-swept way is wending
Easily down the sky. The daisies,
sending
Strange
white signals, seem intending
To show the place whence the scream was
heard.
But, oh, my heart, what birds are
piping!
A silver
wind is hastily wiping
The face of the youngest
rose.
And oh, my heart, cease
apprehending!
The
hawk is gone, a rose is tapping
The window-sash as the west-wind
blows.
Knock, knock, ‘tis no more than a
red rose rapping,
And fear is a plash of wings.
What, then, if a scarlet rose goes
flapping
Down the
bright-grey ruin of things!