The Bird With The Dark Plumes

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.