Turning to the bird, I blessed it—
In my bosom I caressed it;
Still it pierced my heart, and revelled
In the palpitating gore.
I grew mad; the crowning fancies,
Black weeds they—not blooming pansies—
Made me think the bird a spirit.
Bird, I cried, be bird no more;
Take a shape—be man, be devil,
Be a snake; rise in thy revel!