Call down the hawk from the air；

    Let him be hooded or caged

    Till the yellow eye has grown mild，

    For larder and spit are bare，

    The old cook enraged，

    The scullion gone wild.‘

    ‘I will not be clapped in a hood，

    Nor a cage， nor alight upon wrist，

    Now I have learnt to be proud

    Hovering over the wood

    In the broken mist

    Or tumbling cloud.‘

    ‘What tumbling cloud did you cleave，

    Yellow-eyed hawk of the mind，

    Last evening？ that I， who had sat

    Dumbfounded before a knave，

    Should give to my friend

    A pretence of wit.‘