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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=373552" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Over Sir John's Hill</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Over Sir John's hill,<br>The hawk on fire hangs still;<br>In a hoisted cloud, at drop of dusk, he pulls to his claws<br>And gallows, up the rays of his eyes the small birds of the bay<br>And the shrill child's play<br>Wars<br>Of the sparrows and such who swansing, dusk, in wrangling hedges.<br>And blithely they squawk<br>To fiery tyburn over the wrestle of elms until<br>The flash the noosed hawk<br>Crashes, and slowly the fishing holy stalking heron<br>In the river Towy below bows his tilted headstone.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Flash, and the plumes crack,<br>And a black cap of jack-<br>Daws Sir John's just hill dons, and again the gulled birds hare<br>To the hawk on fire, the halter height, over Towy's fins,<br>In a whack of wind.<br>There<br>Where the elegiac fisherbird stabs and paddles<br>In the pebbly dab-filled<br>Shallow and sedge, and 'dilly dilly,' calls the loft hawk,<br>'Come and be killed,'<br>I open the leaves of the water at a passage<br>Of psalms and shadows among the pincered sandcrabs prancing</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And read, in a shell<br>Death clear as a bouy's bell:<br>All praise of the hawk on fire in hawk-eyed dusk be sung,<br>When his viperish fuse hangs looped with flames under the brand<br>Wing, and blest shall<br>Young<br>Green chickens of the bay and bushes cluck, 'dilly dilly,<br>Come let us die.'<br>We grieve as the blithe birds, never again, leave shingle and elm,<br>The heron and I,<br>I young Aesop fabling to the near night by the dingle<br>Of eels, saint heron hymning in the shell-hung distant</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Crystal harbour vale<br>Where the sea cobbles sail,<br>And wharves of water where the walls dance and the white cranes stilt.<br>It is the heron and I, under judging Sir John's elmed<br>Hill, tell-tale the knelled<br>Guilt<br>Of the led-astray birds whom God, for their breast of whistles,<br>Have Mercy on,<br>God in his whirlwind silence save, who marks the sparrows hail,<br>For their souls' song.<br>Now the heron grieves in the weeded verge. Through windows<br>Of dusk and water I see the tilting whispering</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Heron, mirrored, go,<br>As the snapt feathers snow,<br>Fishing in the tear of the Towy. Only a hoot owl<br>Hollows, a grassblade blown in cupped hands, in the looted elms<br>And no green cocks or hens<br>Shout<br>Now on Sir John's hill. The heron, ankling the scaly<br>Lowlands of the waves,<br>Makes all the music; and I who hear the tune of the slow,<br>Wear-willow river, grave,<br>Before the lunge of the night, the notes on this time-shaken<br>Stone for the sake of the souls of the slain birds sailing.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Dylan+Thomas">Dylan Thomas</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=373552" data-title="Over Sir John's Hill de Dylan Thomas" data-description="Over Sir John's hill,
The hawk on fire hangs still;
In a hoisted cloud, at drop of dusk, he pulls to his claws
And gallows, up the rays of his eyes the small birds of the bay
And the shrill child's play
Wars
Of the sparrows and such who swansing, ..."></div>
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