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Poem	The bird with the dark plumes in my blood, That never for one moment however I patched my truces Consented to make peace with the people, It is pitiful now to watch her pleasure In a breath of tempest Breaking the sad promise of spring. Are these that morose hawk's wings, vaulting, a mere mad swallow's, The snow-shed peak, the violent precipice? Poor outlaw that would not value their praise do you prize their blame? "Their liking" she said "was a long creance, But let them be kind enough to hate me that opens the sky." It is almost as foolish my poor falcon To want hatred as to want love; and harder to win.
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