(tyger in the sky)
On very many a dewful morn,
he stalks the golden ray
beneath his claws a shadow born
falls oft upon his prey.
While all on whom this darkness meet,
Deigned by nature's law to scatter.
Beasts of youth, in wonder bleat,
"What's he that doth come hither?"
Withering eyes of a distant cold,
Dribbling ruby red,
Behind his feathered mask behold,
that craft the living dead.
Resculpturing the hooked beak
in eve of need so dire,
while in his breath the carcasses reek
upon a tribal fire.
Till meek and mere, in spite of fear
of loki's secret vice.
The falcon's wings a grisly smear,
snuffed out the light. entice.
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