Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/290

Rh There's a rattle of pleasure, his neck is erect, Bare, musculous; he peers his flight to direct. He stirs, whipping up, the sharp snow of the Andes, He mounts the blue ether with a hoarse cry that grand is, Far, far from this globe, by night's banner defended, Far, far from its noise, from its strife, its endeavour, A speck, but a speck, and as frozen for ever He sleeps in the air, with his wings wide-extended.