William F Dougherty
Why do these odes make such a dainty choice,
'Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird, '
of metaphors in measure? The human voice
favors—so to sing—feathers made-to-word
to lift such lilting melodies through time
in delicate woodnotes, fluent and flush,
chirping like warblers in full-throated rhyme:
skylarks, nightingales and darkling thrush.
Skylarks, my coxcomb! Why must songs ignore
my blazing bursts? Who crows the nights to day,
rousing the sun, from top the hen-house door?
If falsetto poets spend no ink to praise
how brilliantly chanticleer ignites the dawn,
I'll lift my neck one day and merely yawn.
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