His Bill is clasped his Eye forsook
His Bill is clasped his Eye forsook
His Feathers wilted low
The Claws that clung, like lifeless Gloves
Indifferent hanging now
The Joy that in his happy Throat
Was waiting to be poured
Gored through and through with Death, to be
Assassin of a Bird
Resembles to my outraged mind
The firing in Heaven,
On Angels squandering for you
Their Miracles of Tune
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