Behold! a white Hawk tangled in a twisted net of dreams
Struggles no more, but lines the cords with feathers from her breast
Seeing herself within the mystic circle of my voice,
Whereat forthwith its music turns to blades and tongues of fire
Rending the bonds and weaving round the Hawk a skein of light
Raising the work and the Toiler to the never-ending Day.
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