The mighty hawk came swooping low
   To gather up his prey –
An owlet fallen from her nest,
   With feathers soft and gray.

His talons pierced her tender flesh –
   Her blood began to run;
She hung in helpless terror there,
   Half-blinded by the sun.

This life is cold and kind and strange –
   It rules the earth by whim;
A raging storm lit up the West –
   The day grew dark and dim.

A cold wind howled — the sun withdrew –
   He shrieked and let her fall
Toward the arms of ancient oaks;
   And fled the sudden squall.

She made her peace, and called for Death
   In gentle, muted tones;
Yet time and tears re-made her form,
   And healed her broken bones.

Beneath a knowing yellow moon,
   The youngling bird has grown;
She hunts the night with blazing eyes
   And talons of her own.