Mortal Limit

　　by Robert Penn Warren

　　 I saw the hawk ride updraft in the sunset over Wyoming.

　　 It rose from coniferous darkness， past gray jags

　　 Of mercilessness， past whiteness， into the gloaming

　　 Of dream-spectral light above the lazy purity of snow-snags.

　　 There--west--were the Tetons. Snow-peaks would soon be

　　 In dark profile to break constellations. Beyond what height

　　 Hangs now the black speck？ Beyond what range will gold eyes see

　　 New ranges rise to mark a last scrawl of light？

　　 Or， having tasted that atmosphere's thinness， does it

　　 Hang motionless in dying vision before

　　 It knows it will accept the mortal limit，

　　 And swing into the great circular downwardness that will restore

　　 The breath of earth？ Of rock？ Of rot？ Of other such

　　 Items， and the darkness of whatever dream we clutch？