THAT white eagle which goes by Piercing the blue, untrameled sky, It is no bird, though bird it seems, It is the ages' wrought-out dreams. That fine grace which you see there, Riding the swift tides of the air, How to the senses it doth please! That is the grace of the centuries. And that speed which bears it far, Till but a speck is its white car, That is the speed which came to life After a cycle's ceaseless strife. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...OCTAVES: 15 by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON A ST. HELENA LULLABY by RUDYARD KIPLING CALIBAN IN THE COAL MINES by LOUIS UNTERMEYER COMPARISON OF LOVE TO A STREAM FALLING FROM THE ALPS by THOMAS WYATT VILLANELLE OF CITY AND COUNTRY by ZOE AKINS |