The Windhover

I caught this morning midday molten gold In the slaughtered sunlight, and in the haze of this huge day,
A bird hung still; unwounded, a falcon, of course,
Over the wild, mature, soaring, sky; no longer cold.
But I love the feel of prairies in this whirring sun,
And the battle cry of spirits, struggling just out of sight.

I do not stand still but rise, unbent, between earth and heaven, Falling in the incomplete grips of this wind, I fly.

— Gerard Manley Hopkins

• Gerard Manley Hopkins