THE DOR-HAWK. 29 
There Dor-hawk is thy abiding, 
Meadow green is not for thee ; 
While the aspen branches shiver, 
"Mid the roaring of the river, 
Comes thy chirring voice to me. 
Bird, thy form I never looked on, 
And to see it do not care; 
Thou hast been, and thou art only 
As a voice of forests lonely, 
Heard and dwelling only there. 
Bringing thoughts of dusk and shadow; 
Trees huge-branched in ceaseless change ; 
Pallid night-moths, spectre-seeming ; 
All a silent land of dreaming, 
Indistinct and large and strange. 
Be thou thus, and thus I prize thee 
More than knowing thee face to face, 
Head and beak and leg and feather, 
Kept from harm of touch and weather, 
Underneath a fine glass-case. 
p3 
