Classic Poem

1

This high-caught hooded Reason broods upon my wrist,
Fetter'd by a so tenuous leash of steel.
We are bound for the myrtle marshes, many leagues away,
And have a fair expectation of quarry.

2

Over the laggard dove, inclining to green boscage
Hovers this intentional doom — till the unsullied sky receives
A precipitation of shed feathers
And the swifter fall of wounded wings.

3

Will the plain aye echo with that loud hullallo!
Or retain an impress of our passage?
We have caught Beauty in a wild foray
And now the falcon is hooded and comforted away.