  An eagle drifting to the skies To gild her wing in sunset dies, To float into the golden, To swing and sway in broad-winged might, To toss and heel in free-born right, High o'er the gray crags olden. A dark bird reaching on aloft, Till far adown her rugged croft Lies limned in misty tracing— Till, riding on in easy pride, Her cloud-wet wings are ruby pied, Are meshed in amber lacing. An eagle dropping to her cave On dizzy wing through riven air, A bolt from heaven slanted; A startled mother, arrow-winged, A mountain copestone, vapor-ringed, An eyry danger-haunted. An eagle slanting from the skies To stain her breast in crimson dyes Beneath the gilt and golden; A shred of smoke—the gray lead's might— A folded wing—the dead bird's right— Abreast the gray crags olden. The blush light fades along the west, The night mist rolls to crag, to crest, To cowl the ghostly mountain; Black shadows hush the eyry's calls; Below, a broad brown pinion falls— The last light from the fountain. J. W. Rumple. |
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