We never knew the touch of fur and feather,
The delicate fingertips of summer rain;
Only the sting of bitter merciless weather,
The shroud of sleet, the winds that warp and strain,
Within our twisted branches no birds sing
Or come to hush a hungry fledgling's cries.
Only. . . . the shadow of an eagle's wing
Falls, as he floats through pure and lonely skies.
We know the lightnings as familiar faces,
Whose searing glances leave us scorched and bowed—
Yet sometimes we may hold in brief embraces
The snowy garments of a wandering cloud;
And on these branches where no birds will nest
There falls the shadow of an eagle's breast.