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The Hawk

 Thou dost not fly, thou art not perched, 
The air is all around: 
What is it that can keep thee set, 
From falling to the ground? 
The concentration of thy mind 
Supports thee in the air; 
As thou dost watch the small young birgs, 
With such a deadly care.
My mind has such a hawk as thou, It is an evil mood; It comes when there's no cause for grief, And on my joys doth brood.
Then do I see my life in parts; The earth receives my bones, The common air absorbs my mind--- It knows not flowers from stones.

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