Foray

Two things are pencilled on my sight -

A lark ascending and a kite.

I watch the lark, all stringless, free -

Scarce sense the boy in front of me.

Then a great bird supines the sky

And far below a butterfly.

The kite is weaving in the wind,

The lark is soar and cleft and bend;

It up and upward sails, then sinks -

(Is it the boy or I that thinks?)

The little butterfly is caught

By the small lark - the string is taut!

The great bird drops its silent dread

Upon the lark's too tiny head.

Hardly a sound -it was so quick.

(The boy has dropped his kiting-stick.)

The great bird fades into a spot

With the small lark that now is not.

But while he soars the kite is lost,

(The boy is crying for the cost.)

It tears to senseless tatters where

I watch this foray in the air.