No Coleridge ever wrote on you, you Rara Avis.
It was amiss of him to miss you, o bird!
Neither a sestet, not a word!
Not even a rhyming couplet, dear bird.
The sparrow, the beetle, you could never supplant
In William Blake’s rhymes aural or slant.
Where were you hiding when these poets were writing?
Were you hobnobbing with the albatross?
Cavorting with the halcyon
Prancing with the black swan?
Or were you never born?
I lay on the bed, listening.
The serene moon was singing silver melodies
Whispering sweet- nothings into dark night’s ears.
Ah, bliss it was, as rare as you, Rara Avis!
You exist, I know, I have seen you
Peering self-consciously from the slight frame
Of every vertical man.
Though trickster nature tricks
I glimpse you in that glow in Bishop’s Candlesticks.