Love the Wild Swan
'I HATE my verses, every line, every word
Oh pale and brittle pencils ever to try
One grass-blade's curve, or the throat of one bird
That clings to a twig, ruffled against white sky.
Oh cracked and twilight mirrors ever to catch
One color, one glinting flash, of the splendor of things,
Unlucky hunter, Oh bullets of wax,
The lion beauty, the wild-swan wings, the storm of the wings'
--This wild swan of a world is no hunter's game.
Better bullets than yours would miss the white breast,
Better mirrors than yours would crack in the flame.
Does it matter whether you hate your . . . self? At least
Love your eyes that you can see, your mind that can
Hear the music, the thunder of the wings.
Love the wild swan.
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