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 )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
William Ernest Henley
- Experience life, gajanan mishra
- For us, hasmukh amathalal
- It is nature, hasmukh amathalal
- Difference, hasmukh amathalal
- Own earth own life, gajanan mishra
- My Girl, Dasia Deas
- Silent Messages, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- the old man is bitten, RIC S. BASTASA
- ....and then an empty morning sky, RIC S. BASTASA
- Magnitude Of Life, RoseAnn V. Shawiak