Saturday, December 28

The Dead Thrush

THE DEAD THRUSH
Dead, you dwindle,
Caught your wing on a spindle.
You sleep now--
Will you not wake?
Pitiful bird,
To what net were you lured?
You're trapped, now--
Incautious rake!
Sorrow, you're hanging
Among the paintings.
You're stone now--
Oh, what you break!

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