Find no soft echoes in her ears,
Or the vile trade in pangs and fears
Her whims support would languish.
What cares she that those wings were torn
From shuddering things, of plumage shorn
To make her plumes imposing?
That when—for her—bird-mothers die,
Their broods in long-drawn agony
Their eyes—for her—are closing?
What cares she that the woods, bereft