The Windhover: To Christ our Lord

To Christ our Lord

I caught this morning morning’s minion, king-
    dom of daylight’s daupin, 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 the 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 is hiding
Stirred for a bird,-the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valor and act, of , air, pride, plume, here
    Buckle! And the fire that breaks from thee the, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

    No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-beak embers, ah me dear,
    Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.