The Windhover

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 right out far from the rode,
And blue-bleak embers, failing, flew with his wings,
And like the in-stars in his slow-cloud’s pace,
The sky-jewel, the hawk, that hung in the air,
That then with a mighty heave and with a mighty heave
He plunged him, and stooped, and swept me in the air,
And I wheeled, and he wheeled, and we wheeled in the air,
His wings, his tail, his head, his breast, his feet,
All that was his, that was mine, that was ours,
That was his, that was mine, that was ours, that was his,
And I wheeled, and he wheeled, and we wheeled in the air.

The falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung right out far from the rode,
And blue-bleak embers, failing, flew with his wings,
And like the in-stars in his slow-cloud’s pace,
The sky-jewel, the hawk, that hung in the air,
That then with a mighty heave he plunged him, and stooped,
And swept me in the air, and I wheeled, and he wheeled, and we wheeled in the air.

Since, men must have that prize, that prize of prizes,
That prize of prizes, that prize of prizes, that prize of prizes.
Ah, God, what is all this? Ah, God, what is all this?
Ah, God,

The prize, the prize, the prize,
Is Christ.
Christ.
Christ.
Christ.