He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ringed with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
A brief, flawless, heraldic realization of a creature in all the spikily tangible properties of his creatureliness… Poetry can do that, you know, much like painting, and even good photography. I did not take these photos, but found them on pixabay. While we see bald eagles in the sky regularly and they even land in the yard from time to time, you’d be hard pressed to find either sea or crag around here, and hence very little chance to capture in a different medium what Tennyson expressed so aptly.