His Bill is clasped—his Eye forsook— His Feathers wilted low— The Claws that clung, like lifeless Gloves Indifferent hanging now— The Joy that in his happy Throat Was waiting to be poured Gored through and through with Death, to be Assassin of a Bird Resembles to my outraged mind The firing in Heaven, On Angels—squandering for you Their Miracles of Tune—
