Many roses in the wind

Are tapping at the window-sash.

A hawk is in the sky; his wings

Slowly begin to plash.

The roses with the west wind rapping

Are torn away and a splash

Of red goes down the billowing air.

Still hangs the hawk with the whole sky moving

Past him—only a wing-beat proving

The will that holds him there.

The daisies in the grass are bending

The hawk has dropped the wind is spending

All the roses and unending

Rustle of leaves washes out the rending

Cry of a bird.

A red rose goes on the wind.—Ascending

The hawk his wind-swept way is wending

Easily down the sky. The daisies sending

Strange white signals seem intending

To show the place whence the scream was heard.

But oh my heart what birds are piping!

A silver wind is hastily wiping

The face of the youngest rose.

And oh my heart cease apprehending!

The hawk is gone a rose is tapping

The window-sash as the west-wind blows.

Knock knock ’tis no more than a red rose rapping

And fear is a plash of wings.

What then if a scarlet rose goes flapping

Down the bright-grey ruin of things!