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 —