I speak to the unbeautiful of this bird
That, celestially bored,
On feet too little under willows trails
Too much of itself, like Proust, a long brocade
Along, not seen but felt; that’s never spared,
Most mortal of its trials,
Lifting this burden up in pride.
The spreading tail is pallid seen from the back
But it’s worthwhile to look
At what strenuous midribs make the plumage stretch:
Then, while it teeters in the light wind, ah
It turns, black, green and gold, that zodiac
Of eyes – not these so much
As idiot mouths repeating: I.
Consider other birds: the murderous swan
And dodo now undone,
The appalling dove, hens’ petulant sisterhood;
And then the peacock that no cry alarms,
Tense with idlesse, as though already on
A terrace in boxwood
Or graven in a coat of arms.
In all these there’s the common wound of nature
No natural hand can suture,
A lessening – whether by want of shape they fail,
Of song or will to live, or something else.
How comforting to think blest any creature
This short of beautiful!
But some have known such comfort false.
A beatitude of trees which shall inherit
Whoever’s poor in spirit
Receives the peacock in their cumbersome shade.
Some who have perfect beauty shall not grieve,
As I, for diminution: they know merit
In body, word and deed,
Lone angels round each human grave.
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