O raptor caught in rapturous flight,
So high you’re almost out of sight,
Soaring silently alone,
All open space is now your own,
The open marsh, the open bog,
The hazy mountains smoking fog,
On these gusty currents you sail,
Through the clouds and through the gale.
You possess, o rarest of creatures,
The finest of feathered features,
Your slate visage and two-pronged tail,
And eyes so sharp, they never fail,
Now I doubt there is as good a sight,
Than seeing you, my friend, the rare red kite.