The Taming of the Falcon

 The bird sits spelled upon the lithe brown wrist 
Of yonder turbaned fowler, who had lamed 
No feather limb, but the winged spirit tamed 
With his compelling eye.
 He need not trust 
The silken coil, not set the thick-limed snare; 
He lures the wanderer with his steadfast gaze, 
It shrinks, it quails, it trembles yet obeys.
 
And, lo! he has enslaved the thing of air.
 
The fixed, insistent human will is lord 
Of all the earth;--but in the awful sky 
Reigns absolute, unreached by deed or word 
Above creation; through eternity, 
Outshining the sun's shield, the lightening's sword, 
The might of Allah's unaverted eye.

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