The Falconer of God

William Rose Benét

I flung my soul to the air like a falcon flying.
I said, "Wait on, wait on, while I ride below!
    I shall start a heron soon
    In the marsh beneath the moon —
A strange white heron rising with silver on its wings,
       Rising and crying
    Wordless, wondrous things;
The secret of the stars, of the world's heart-strings,
    The answer to their woe.
Then stoop thou upon him, and grip and hold him so!"
   My wild soul waited on as falcons hover.
   I beat the reedy fens as I trampled past.
    I heard the mournful loon
    In the marsh beneath the moon.
And then — with feathery thunder — the bird of my desire
       Broke from the cover
    Flashing silver fire.
   High up among the stars I saw his pinions spire.
    The pale clouds gazed aghast
As my falcon stoopt upon him, and gript and held him fast.
My soul dropt through the air — with heavenly plunder? —
Gripping the dazzling bird my dreaming knew?
    Nay! but a piteous freight,
    A dark and heavy weight
Despoiled of silver plumage, its voice forever stilled, —
       All of the wonder
    Gone that ever filled
Its guise with glory.  Oh, bird that I have killed,
    How brilliantly you flew
Across my rapturous vision when first I dreamed of you!
   Yet I fling my soul on high with new endeavor,
   And I ride the world below with a joyful mind.
    I shall start a heron soon
    In the marsh beneath the moon —
A wondrous silver heron its inner darkness fledges!
       I beat forever
    The fens and the sedges.
   The pledge is still the same — for all disastrous pledges,
       All hopes resigned!
My soul still flies above me for the quarry it shall find.


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