I shot an eagle once,
And looked at the gorgeous corpse, ruffled the plumes
And saw the lice under them: we the white lice
On this eagle world. I don't make a good louse,
I lack contentment.
One ought to be satisfied with the warm grease
Under the stormy feathers flying through thunder;
Shut eyes and suck.

the fiddle
Screamed like an eagle,

His face looked blind
And high like a ship's prow, cleaving the crowd
To the outer door.

he felt his mind
Clutch that clear form, as a man climbing a precipice
Clutches a horn of hard rock, “This will not flow
Out of my hand." He found himself for a lightning
moment
Outside the flux and whirl of things, observing the world
From a fixed point. He saw the small spinning planet,
Spotted with white at the poles and dull red wars
Branding both cheeks, and the sun and the other stars like
herds of wild horses
On the vast field,

This pallid comet announces more than kings' deaths.
To tail it with purer color I add
That the mountains are alive. They crouch like great cats
watching
Our comic and mouse-hole tragedies, or lift high over
them
Peaks like sacred torches, pale-flaming rock.
The old blue dragon breathes at their feet, the eternal
flames
Burn in the sky. The spirit that flickers and hurts in
humanity
Shines brighter from better lamps; but from all shines.
Look to it: prepare for the long winter: spring is fare off.