MANY roses in the wind Are tapping at the window-sash. A hawk is in the sky; his wings Slowly begin to plash. The roses with the west wind rapping Are torn away, and a splash Of red goes down the billowing air. Still hangs the hawk, with the whole sky moving Past him—only a wing-beat proving The will that holds him there. The daisies in the grass are bending, The hawk has dropped, the wind is spending All the roses, and unending Rustle of leaves washes out the rending Cry of a bird. A red rose goes on the wind.—Ascending The hawk his wind-swept way is wending Easily down the sky. The daisies, sending Strange white signals, seem intending To show the place whence the scream was heard. But, oh, my heart, what birds are piping! A silver wind is hastily wiping The face of the youngest rose. And oh, my heart, cease apprehending! The hawk is gone, a rose is tapping The window-sash as the west-wind blows. Knock, knock, 'tis no more than a red rose rapping, And fear is a plash of wings. What, then, if a scarlet rose goes flapping Down the bright-grey ruin of things!
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