I guess I'll have to make it up.

    A bird came to me, she did not chirp
    And he did not whisper.
    The wings sheathed on its back                  
    Were in no disrepair.

    Was it blue? How hard to tell, for its
    Skin and coat were of glass, but
    finer.

    This bird a flower.
           So far from bloom.
           So frail i'll keep it, to nurse in
           Gloom.

Not all birds need sun, nor all flowers flight.
But this of mine will soon have both, for mine must wrest day from night.