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"Perhaps if he had a great deal of fresh air and
knew Dickon and the robin and saw things growing he might not think
so much about dying." (Burnett, Frances
Hodgson. (1996) The Secret Garden (p. 154). New York: Grosset
& Dunlap Publishers.)
That a little wild thing should come,
unasked—gives one a thrill, and a touch of awe.
Liberal educator in a small
body—round, plump and dainty.
Your head, you tilt; your wings, you flirt—instinctively
dramatic.
Alluring, little patrician with graceful, honourable
bearing
Your eyes, large, dark and dewy and legs, delicately
slendering.
Mr. Curious with fascinatingly conceit wear tight,
red-satin waistcoat.
You stoop to attract and to all interlopers give attack
In a rage that reveals to us, your jealous side.
Not to be noticed, is preciously what you don't abide.
Excited to learn, you share
with me, your first song
as scarlet throat puffs out your first, low, distant
sound
your body tremulous as you produce a captive trill,
first notes not yet clear, as you have closed your bill.
Disarmingly proud, you practice until an open beak
shapes clear, brilliant, little roulades that do seek
their home in my ear—a mating, a love song, most dear. |
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