Thou dost not fly, thou art not perched,
  The air is all around:
What is it that can keep thee set,
  From falling to the ground?
The concentration of thy mind
  Supports thee in the air;
As thou dost watch the small young birds,
  With such a deadly care.

My mind has such a hawk as thou,
  It is an evil mood;
It comes when there's no cause for grief,
  And on my joys doth brood.
Then do I see my life in parts;
  The earth receives my bones,
The common air absorbs my mind -
  It knows not flowers from stones.