The Island Hawk
Hushed are the whimpering winds on the hill,
Dumb is the shrinking plain,
And the songs that enchanted the woods are still
As I shoot to the skies again!
Does the blood grow black on my fierce bent beak,
Does the down still cling to my claw?
Who brightened these eyes for the prey they seek?
Life, I follow thy law!
For I am the hawk, the hawk, the hawk!
Who knoweth my pitiless breast?
Who watcheth me sway in the wild wind's way?
Flee – flee – for I quest, I quest.
As I glide and glide with my peering head,
Or swerve at a puff of smoke,
Who watcheth my wings on the wind outspread,
Here – gone – with an instant stroke?
Who toucheth the glory of life I feel
As I buffet this great glad gale,
Spire and spire to the cloud-world, wheel,
Loosen my wings and sail?
For I am the hawk, the island hawk,
Who knoweth my pitiless breast?
Who watcheth me sway in the sun's bright way?
Flee – flee – for I quest, I quest.
My mate in the nest on the high bright tree
Blazing with dawn and dew,
She knoweth the gleam of the world and the glee
As I drop like a bolt from the blue.
She knoweth the fire of the level flight
As I skim, close, close to the ground,
With the long grass lashing my breast and the bright
Dew-drops flashing around.
She watcheth the hawk, the hawk, the hawk
(Oh, the red-blotched eggs in the nest!)
Watcheth him sway in the sun's bright way.
Flee – flee – for I quest, I quest.
She builded her nest on the high bright wold,
She was taught in a world afar
The lore that is only an April old
Yet old as the evening star.
Life of a far off ancient day
In an hour unhooded her eyes.
In the time of the budding of one green spray
She was wise as the stars are wise.
An eyas in eyry, a yellow-eyed hawk,
On the old elm's burgeoning breast,
She watcheth me sway in the wild wind's way.
Flee – flee – for I quest, I quest.
She hath ridden on white Arabian steeds
Thro' the ringing English dells,
For the joy of a great queen, hunting in state,
To the music of golden bells.
A queen's fair fingers have drawn the hood
And tossed her aloft in the blue,
A white hand eager for needless blood.
I hunt for the needs of two.
A haggard in yarak, a hawk, a hawk!
Who knoweth my pitiless breast?
Who watcheth me sway in the sun's bright way?
Flee – flee – for I quest, I quest.
Who fashioned her wide and splendid eyes
That have stared in the eyes of kings?
With a silken twist she was looped to their wrist:
She has clawed at their jewelled rings!
Who flung her first thro' the crimson dawn
To pluck him a prey from the skies,
When the love-light shone upon lake and lawn
In the valleys of Paradise?
Who fashioned the hawk, the hawk, the hawk,
Bent beak and pitiless breast?
Who watcheth him sway in the wild wind's way?
Flee – flee – for I quest, I quest.
Is there ever a song in all the world
Shall say how the quest began
With the beak and the wings that have made us kings
And cruel – almost – as man?
The wild wind whimpers across the heath
Where the sad little tufts of blue
And the red-stained grey little feathers of death
Flutter! Who fashioned us? Who?
Who fashioned the scimitar wings of the hawk,
Bent beak and arrowy breast?
Who watcheth him sway in the sun's bright way?
Flee – flee – for I quest, I quest.
poem by Alfred Noyes
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Related quotes
Ballades V - Of His Choice of a Sepulchre
HERE I ’d come when weariest!
Here the breast
Of the Windberg’s tufted over
Deep with bracken; here his crest
Takes the west,
Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover.
Silent here are lark and plover;
In the cover
Deep below, the cushat best
Loves his mate, and croons above
O’er their nest,
Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover.
Bring me here, Life’s tired-out guest,
To the blest
Bed that waits the weary rover,—
Here should failure be confest;
Ends my quest,
Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover!
ENVOY
Friend, or stranger kind, or lover,
Ah, fulfil a last behest,
Let me rest
Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover!
poem by Andrew Lang
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Hawk IIII
So I sat up and stared at the place the hawk had been-
rose, shuffled to the window, in fact
the Barrio was still the Barrio, in every respect:
the Projects not going anywhere fast,
the cars still parked along the curb
yellow, black, red and green
the little tree empty of wrens.
'Well', I thought,
present or absent
a hawk makes nothing different.
Difference, the mis-en-scene, the meaning
being the human part, and up to me. The hawk
was just a hawk sitting in a place where you don't normally
expect to see a hawk, that's all.
But I couldn't help thinking of the way
the halk made the neighborhood quite wonderful-
here: a flyway, and gone,
just a desolate, hawkless tract.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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Hawk And Buckle
Where is the landlord of old Hawk and Buckle,
And what of Master Straddler this hot summer weather?
He's along in the tap-room with broad cheeks a-chuckle,
And ten bold companions all drinking together.
Where is the daughter of old Hawk and Buckle,
And what of Mistress Jenny this hot summer weather?
She sits in the parlour with smell of honeysuckle,
Trimming her bonnet with red ostrich feather.
Where is the ostler of old Hawk and Buckle,
And what of Willy Jakeman this hot summer weather?
He is rubbing his eyes with a slow and lazy knuckle
As he wakes from his nap on a bank of fresh heather.
Where is the page boy of old Hawk and Buckle,
And what of our young Charlie this hot summer weather?
He is bobbing for tiddlers in a little trickle-truckle,
With his line and his hook and his breeches of leather.
Where is the grey goat of old Hawk and Buckle,
And what of pretty Nanny this hot summer weather?
She stays not contented with little or with muckle,
Straining for daisies at the end of her tether.
For this is our motto at old Hawk and Buckle,
We cling to it close and we sing all together,
'Every man for himself at our old Hawk and Buckle,
And devil take the hindmost this hot summer weather.'
poem by Robert Graves
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Quest
What am I looking for?
What am I searching for?
What quest is this, I know not?
Where does this path lead to?
Where is my destination?
What quest is this, I know not?
Is my quest worth it?
Or is it just a pursuit for
some goal or purpose?
Or is it an exploration of
the journey called life?
Or is it a crusade for
meeting with the Lord?
What quest is this, I know not?
Copyright©2011Rizvana Parveen
poem by Rizvana Parveen
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Shiva
There is a hawk that is picking the birds out of our sky,
She killed the pigeons of peace and security,
She has taken honesty and confidence from nations and men,
She is hunting the lonely heron of liberty.
She loads the arts with nonsense, she is very cunning
Science with dreams and the state with powers to catch them at last.
Nothing will escape her at last, flying nor running.
This is the hawk that picks out the star's eyes.
This is the only hunter that will ever catch the wild swan;
The prey she will take last is the wild white swan of the beauty of things.
Then she will be alone, pure destruction, achieved and supreme,
Empty darkness under the death-tent wings.
She will build a nest of the swan's bones and hatch a new brood,
Hang new heavens with new birds, all be renewed.
poem by Robinson Jeffers
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You Are A Human Being
You don’t float because
Your father is a carpenter
He floats well in water because
His father is a duck
On the other hand, he flies
Well in air, not because his
Father is a vulture, it is obvious
He looks like a hawk and acts like a hawk
It is obvious,
He is a hawk himself.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Freedom For You And Me
Freedom for you and me
Is an unattainable feeling to flee
From the World itself.
It is a dream to be
In a world of total glee.
Some times freedom has two wings
Both pulling towards left and right differently.
It has the colour of many rings
That surround the Saturn of life coherently.
Freedom is an Utopia
As we we cannot flee to any place at one go.
It is more than a bubble`s Nostalgia
As you and I flee into ourselves at a go
Within the Titan surrounding the Saturn.
poem by M.d Dinesh Nair
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Quest
If my quest was to be the best...
I could not sit,
Until I sat in 'research' quick.
Before I grabbed a walking stick...
To adorn this climbing crusade!
I want to be dressed for the part!
If my quest was to be the best.
BS and all the rest of that nonsense,
Would be left behind...
With the ignorance that it swallows.
If my quest was to be the best.
I would need to learn how to be uncomfortable...
Sometimes.
And in my discomfort I think of what's been left behind.
And I find myself in my mind feeling at home!
Glued like a magnet to the ignorance that comforts!
If my quest was to be the best...
I would find a way to excavate this 'home'
Decorated with my heart and soul within me!
And 'that' would be the best of my quest.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Psycho Killer
I cant seem to face up to the facts
Im tense and nervous and i
Cant relax
I cant sleep cause my beds on fire
Dont touch me Im a real live wire
Psycho killer
Quest que cest
Fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa far better
Run run run run run run run away
Psycho killer
Quest que cest
Fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa far better
Run run run run run run run away
You start a conversation you cant even finish it.
Youre talkin a lot, but youre not sayin anything.
When I have nothing to say, my lips are sealed.
Say something once, why say it again?
Psycho killer,
Quest que cest
Fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa far better
Run run run run run run run away
Psycho killer
Quest que cest
Fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa far better
Run run run run run run run away
(* spoken interlude in french *)
Psycho killer,
Quest que cest
Fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa far better
Run run run run run run run away
Psycho killer,
Quest que cest
Fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa far better
Run run run run run run run away
Oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh....
song performed by by Talking Heads
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Happiness?
Afar I found my happiness,
a place where I could be my best.
Far away from what caused my distress,
I finally conquered my life-long quest.
The quest to find pure happiness,
that was the quest that I've been blessed.
But what you ask is pure happiness? ..
Honestly, I'm not really sure..
just take a guess.
Being happy as what I see,
is something we always want to be.
But how you ask can we always be,
very happy for eternity?
In our days, this happiness,
it's something we just risk to mess.
But happiness where can we find?
I want to know.. what's on your mind?
We got all the needs but more of the wants,
sometimes we even want more pairs of pants.
Like all other things,
I think this happiness is just temporary.
All these things I've been saying,
honestly, I feel it's very contrary.
I guess this quest that I've been blessed,
hasn't really been conquered just yet..
'cause I feel a bit haggard about this quest,
I think for a while I need to take a rest.
So, all of you who also got this quest,
come, please help me, I'm in such a big mess.
Come on,
just tell me..
is it east or west..
where did you find this so called
'happiness'?
poem by Cookie Matzii
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Hawk I
There was a hawk on the porch rail this morning
the span of your arm.
suddenly, out of nowhere it was there:
not unknown in Central Park, maybe,
but here in East Harlem-rare,
sitting asquat the gleaming, sun-licked bar.
You could see the projects over its wing-shoulder
the Babel-like water-tower.
You could see the cars parked down the block
like never because of mister or miss hawk.
Never have I seen a hawk so up-close.
I could feel the slight tilt of its reddish head,
its feral, yellow eye, led
it seemed, by genuine interest
to range along the neighborhood
sampling each scene as from a smorgasboard of views-
a bite of this, of this. An eye feast.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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The Hawk
'CALL down the hawk from the air;
Let him be hooded or caged
Till the yellow eye has grown mild,
For larder and spit are bare,
The old cook enraged,
The scullion gone wild.'
'I will not be clapped in a hood,
Nor a cage, nor alight upon wrist,
Now I have learnt to be proud
Hovering over the wood
In the broken mist
Or tumbling cloud.'
'What tumbling cloud did you cleave,
Yellow-eyed hawk of the mind,
Last evening? that I, who had sat
Dumbfounded before a knave,
Should give to my friend
A pretence of wit.'
poem by William Butler Yeats
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I don't think radio is selling records like they used to. They'd hawk the song and hawk the artist and you'd get so excited, you'd stop your car and go into the nearest record store.
quote by Herb Alpert
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The sparrow flying behind the hawk thinks the hawk is fleeing.
Eyes Of A Hawk
Honesty in eye
the hawk
you know
glistening white
from tundra snow
at night.
Brightest most harshest of
deserts would say
the meaning eye
of the hawk.
In reflection of eye
it's prism to scry
of the trees
brush of the sky
painted thus so.
Freedom to they
must abide
only eaters of
carrion when humiliated
by human.
Pride in such grace
should force tears
from thine eyes.
whom see what
they've done
and how they
do cry.
Enveloped in such as
massive wings go
so it was Gabriel
that taught them
to fly.
poem by Uloia Norris Moore
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The Child in the Orchard
'He rolls in the orchard: he is stained with moss
And with earth, the solitary old white horse.
Where is his father and where is his mother
Among all the brown horses? Has he a brother?
I know the swallow, the hawk, and the hern;
But there are two million things for me to learn.
'Who was the lady that rode the white horse
With rings and bells to Banbury Cross?
Was there no other lady in England beside
That a nursery rhyme could take for a ride?
The swift, the swallow, the hawk, and the hern.
There are two million things for me to learn.
'Was there a man once who straddled across
The back of the Westbury White Horse
Over there on Salisbury Plain's green wall?
Was he bound for Westbury, or had he a fall?
The swift, the swallow, the hawk, and the hern.
There are two million things for me to learn.
'Out of all the white horses I know three,
At the age of six; and it seems to me
There is so much to learn, for men,
That I dare not go to bed again.
The swift, the swallow, the hawk, and the hern.
There are millions things for me to learn.'
poem by Edward Thomas
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Utah Canyon '04
In a beautiful,
Devinely desolate,
Limpidly lonely,
Canyon - where the Spirit meets the man -
The wind mournfully blows
As it plays with the rocks and trees
It alone so intimately knows.
Utah uniqueness,
Hypaethral happiness...
A place far different from all the rest,
A place ardored with the aroma
Of a deeply spiritual quest.
Sun by day,
Moon by night
In here reflect
Beauty so bright;
From beyond the ledge on high
A hawk soars down - interlucent epiphany -
God stands here...
For this is holy ground.
-Only a few,
This wilderness wonder,
Are allowed to see;
Thank God
One of them
Has been me, standing here at
Heaven's door,
In Utah, aught-four.
' Always I shall be one who loves the wilderness:
Swaggers and softly creeps between the mountain peaks;
... I shall sing my song above the shriek of desert winds. ' - Everett Ruess.
poem by Smoky Hoss
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The Boat Waits
the wolf runs night's paths
with hungry eyes...
magnificent in the moonlight,
panting with desire.
following the scent
from which he came...
he stops in the clearing,
and howls!
the hawk soars the skies,
as if a path.
over mountains and valleys,
in and out of clouds.
eyes intent, with furious purpose...
with wings that taste and touch,
intimate, yet scorched!
the wind blows, the waves come in,
and go out... the boat is empty!
leaves fall from the trees,
only god hears and knows.
and i walk the darkness,
part wolf, part hawk...
both wind and wave...
following the scent,
with desire and purpose!
the boat waits, the lantern is lit!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Circle
A rain hawk circles in the dawn.
The dawn uncovers the trees;
the trees lead to a forest.
The forest sinks into the damp earth;
the damp earth waters the stones.
Stones are under a rain hawk -
a rain hawk circles in the dawn
a rain hawk circles in the dawn.
poem by Leslie Philibert
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The Twa Corbies
AS I was walking all alane
I heard twa corbies making a mane:
The tane unto the tither did say,
'Whar sall we gang and dine the day?'
'--In behint yon auld fail dyke
I wot there lies a new-slain knight;
And naebody kens that he lies there
But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair.
'His hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
His lady 's ta'en anither mate,
So we may mak our dinner sweet.
'Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,
And I'll pike out his bonny blue e'en:
Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair
We'll theek our nest when it grows bare.
'Mony a one for him maks mane,
But nane sall ken whar he is gane:
O'er his white banes, when they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair.'