From under the dark cloud, a shaft
Of sun picks out a hawk in air,
And turns it to a bird of flame
That hangs in heaven, hovering there
As in a trance of golden dream.

The clouds close down: the sun goes out:
Dark shadow sweeps across the land:
And, shutting suddenly his wings,
The kestrel drops — and, close at hand,
A dying pipit's tiny scream!