Classic Poem

He wings a slow and watchful flight,
His neck is bare, his eyes are bright,
His plumage fits the starless night.

He sits at feast where cattle lie
Withering in ashen alkali,
And gorges till he scarce can fly.

But he is kingly on the breeze!
On rigid wing in royal ease
A soundless bark on viewless seas,
Piercing the purple storm-cloud — he makes
The sun his neighbor, and shakes
His wrinkled neck in mock dismay,
Swinging his slow contemptuous way
Above the hot red lightning's play: —

Monarch of cloudland — yet a ghoul at prey.