The Wild Bird

It's good to be the wild bird
To pierce horizons a-far,
To hurl through night and sunlight
As sure as the flight of a star,
To pour down out of heaven
As sheep pour out of a fold
Where lone lakes lie in the sunset
A-ripple with fluctuant gold, —
To dive and cry and scurry
And shift in a joyous fleet
Where the sudden-pattering rainstorm
Roars by on a million feet!
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