Thou dost not fly, thou art not perched, <br />The air is all around: <br />What is it that can keep thee set, <br />From falling to the ground? <br />The concentration of thy mind <br />Supports thee in the air; <br />As thou dost watch the small young birgs, <br />With such a deadly care. <br /> <br />My mind has such a hawk as thou, <br />It is an evil mood; <br />It comes when there's no cause for grief, <br />And on my joys doth brood. <br />Then do I see my life in parts; <br />The earth receives my bones, <br />The common air absorbs my mind--- <br />It knows not flowers from stones.<br /><br />William Henry Davies<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-hawk-2/
