Thursday, 28 April 2016
shakespeare sonnet to a bird
From where does thy trepid call emit
its high-born shrill upon mine ear?
Thy form is spied now floating as does a leaf
or feather upon the tumbrous air.
With wings dipped in ink thou writest
tales of thy skill
and valour not matched by any circus acrobat
who awe can fill.
Prince of the marsh, now casting golden eyes upon his realm
with long shanks bearing talons cruel as the Moor's scimitar
that which the moor-hen does fear and more.
This splendant hawk goes down among the standard reeds
and, once down, does rise again
does set the standerd in such deeds.
A toe is reached forth,
and scratching head whilst wings are spread
and tail fanned, held in thought
of sweeping after worthy sport-
Thou shall feast once more if careless coney
or tame vole
will not see,
the coming of thy destiny.