Here she is again, old Worm-beak,
Breast the color of a mud lake,
Perched on a post of the rail fence,
An eye of shining insolence.
Frowzy, windblown, she whistles twice
Some notes retrieved from Paradise,
Swoops and spears the lawn and is gone
Into the cherry’s greening crown.
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
The Ones Who Didn’t Convert
Melanie McDonagh’s Converts, reviewed in First Things last month, allows us to gaze close-up at the extraordinary…
The Burning World of William Blake (ft. Mark Vernon)
In the latest installment of the ongoing interview series with contributing editor Mark Bauerlein, Mark Vernon joins…
Bladee’s Redemptive Rap
Georg Friedrich Philipp von Hardenberg, better known by his pen name Novalis, died at the age of…
