| THE BLUE HERON In a green place lanced through With amber and gold and blue, A place of water and weeds And roses pinker than dawn, And ranks of lush young reeds, And grasses straightly drawn From graven ripples of sands, The still blue heron stands. Smoke-blue he is, and grey As embers of yesterday. Still he is, as death; Like stone, or shadow of stone, Without a pulse or breath, Motionless and alone There in the lily stems. But his eyes are alive like gems. Still as a shadow, still Grey feather and yellow bill. Still as an image made Of mist and smoke half hid By windless sunshine and shade, Save when a yellow lid Slides and is gone like a breath. Death-still-and sudden as death ! Author: Theodore Goodridge Roberts |
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| Favourite Links: Shirley's Web Pages |
| Page created by Ryette October 2003 Reviewed Jan. 2004 |
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