poetry form

i flung my soul to the air like a falcon flying
how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
up to her chamber window
it was the autumn of the year
with the meek, brown eyes
roses and gold
through the broad earth's aching breast
have you heard
royal feast was done
they ask me where i've been
and as we walked the grass was faintly stirred
shadows lay along broadway
she might have known it in the earlier spring