Poem by Archibald MacLeish

Hunters

No more on slant wings of the fisher gull,
Flashing like blades across the blowing light,
Do I coast up the morning in slow flight
Peering for some rare silver in the sea;
No more at glitter of the beautiful
Drop wings and follow on the instant's lust
To close with hope forever on the thrust,
Or plunge at chance to seize what chance may be.

No more nor ever like the bright brave gull
Will I go hawking in the windy world.
I am turned robin and I wisely pull
A worm occasional from garden sod,
Thankful to dodge the dreadful acorns hurled
In jest or malice by the garden god. 

1. Difference
2. The Geographer
3. You, Andrew Marvell

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