THE GRACKLE IS THE LOON

Never believe this bird connotes

Jade whorls of carven commonness:

Nor as from ordinary throats

Slides his sharp song in ice-strung stress.

He is the cold and scornful Loon,

Who, hoping that the sun shall fail,

Steeps in the silver of the moon

His burnished claws, his chiseled tail.

[!-- H2 anchor --]

Leonora Speyer

(Speaking, notwithstanding, with unshaken poise.)