To Christ our Lord


I caught this morning morning’s minion, king-   
  dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding   
  Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding   
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing   
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,          
  As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding   
  Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding   
Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!   
   
Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here   
  Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion   
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!   
   
  No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion   
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,   
  Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.