| ‘Call down the hawk from the air; |
| Let him be hooded or caged |
| Till the yellow eye has grown mild, |
| For larder and spit are bare, |
| The old cook enraged, |
| The scullion gone wild.’ |
| ‘I will not be clapped in a hood, |
| Nor a cage, nor alight upon wrist, |
| Now I have learnt to be proud |
| Hovering over the wood |
| In the broken mist |
| Or tumbling cloud.’ |
| ‘What tumbling cloud did you cleave, |
| Yellow-eyed hawk of the mind, |
| Last evening? that I, who had sat |
| Dumbfounded before a knave, |
| Should give to my friend |
| A pretence of wit.’ |