Over the west side of the mountain,
that’s lyrebird country.
I could go down there, they say, in the early morning,
and I’d see them, I’d hear them.
Ten years, and I have never gone.
I’ll never go.
I’ll never see the lyrebirds -
the few, the shy, the fabulous,
the dying poets.
I should see them, if I lay there in the dew:
first a single movement
like a waterdrop falling, then stillness,
then a brown head, brown eyes,
a splendid bird, bearing
like a crest the symbol of his art,
the high symmetrical shape of the perfect lyre.
I should hear that master practising his art.
No, I have never gone.
Some things ought to be left secret, alone;
some things – birds like walking fables –
ought to inhabit nowhere but the reverence of the
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Comments about this poem (Lyrebirds by Judith Wright )
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
Alfred Lord Tennyson
(6 August 1809 – 6 October 1892)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 March 1934 – 31 May 2009)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 February 1898 – 14 August 1956)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
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