I make a garland here of water-flowers 
Gathered in quiet hours 
From banks that Liris hourly eats away: 
From fields that hear all day 
The plaint of Simois for boyhood dead. 
From almond-boughs o'erhead 
I pluck some mocking blossoms: and a spray 
Of euphrasy, 
That I may see on every leafless tree 
The promise of its later royalty 
Of mellow apples, or its summer dower 
Of scarlet thorn or purple Judas-flower. 
I make my garland here, and set between 
Pale poplar leaves and Pan's own parsley green 
From battle-fields where Nike has not been. 
I lift my finished wreath, but make my prayer 
Neither to Jove nor Venus: nor have care 
To plead to Juno, that my unbound hair 
The yellow veil may bear. 
But I make humble prayer 
To Pan, who gives the squirrel winter store, 
Who bids the reeds grow by the river-shore: 
That he will stand before 
My joy and grief, 
And that my withered leaf 
He gather up into his sunburned hand. 
For joy and grief and hope Pan also knew, 
And he hath care to-day for maid and man 
That Love has yet forborne to bless or ban: 
For once in fields that knew no mortal feet 
He harvested Love's wheat, in Love's own land. 
Therefore, my wreath that's pale and little sweet 
I cast before Pan's feet. 

The broken pillar of the wing jags from the clotted shoulder,
The wing trails like a banner in defeat,
No more to use the sky forever but live with famine
And pain a few days: cat nor coyote
Will shorten the week of waiting for death, there is game without talons.
He stands under the oak-bush and waits
The lame feet of salvation; at night he remembers freedom
And flies in a dream, the dawns ruin it.
He is strong and pain is worse to the strong, incapacity is worse.
The curs of the day come and torment him
At distance, no one but death the redeemer will humble that head,
The intrepid readiness, the terrible eyes.
The wild God of the world is sometimes merciful to those
That ask mercy, not often to the arrogant.
You do not know him, you communal people, or you have forgotten him;
Intemperate and savage, the hawk remembers him;
Beautiful and wild, the hawks, and men that are dying, remember him.

I'd sooner, except the penalties, kill a man than a hawk; but the great redtail
Had nothing left but unable misery
From the bone too shattered for mending, the wing that trailed under his talons when he moved.
We had fed him six weeks, I gave him freedom,
He wandered over the foreland hill and returned in the evening, asking for death,
Not like a beggar, still eyed with the old
Implacable arrogance. I gave him the lead gift in the twilight. What fell was relaxed,
Owl-downy, soft feminine feathers; but what
Soared: the fierce rush: the night-herons by the flooded river cried fear at its rising
Before it was quite unsheathed from reality.