“Who but hails the sight with pleasure
When the wings of genius rise,
Their ability to measure
With great enterprise;
But in man was ne’er such daring
As yon Hawk exhibits, pairing
His brave spirit with the war in
The stormy skies!
“Mark him, how his power he uses,
Lays it by, at will resumes!
Mark, ere for his haunt he chooses
Clouds and utter glooms!
There, he wheels in downward mazes;
Sunward now his flight he raises,
Catches fire, as seems, and blazes
With uninjured plumes!”
ANSWER
“Stranger, ’tis no act of courage
Which aloft thou dost discern;
No bold ‘bird’ gone forth to forage
‘Mid the tempest stern;
But such mockery as the nations
See, when public perturbations
Lift men from their native stations
Like yon TUFT OF FERN;
“Such it is; the aspiring creature
Soaring on undaunted wing,
(So you fancied) is by nature
A dull helpless thing,
Dry and withered, light and yellow;
‘That’ to be the tempest’s fellow!
Wait, and you shall see how hollow
Its endeavouring!”
Read all of William Wordsworth's poems · About William Wordsworth
More by William Wordsworth
Write poetry? Submit your poem to Poetry Catalog