Spring 1948 • Vol. X No. 2 A Group of Irish PoemsApril 1, 1948 |

The White Bird

I made a loaf of bread And scattered it in crumbs Under the yellowing tree, For the white bird with the red Beak and glittering eyes, Who sits indifferently Turning a cold white head. I culled old recipes And made a loaf of bread And scattered every crumb Under the yellowing trees; But he humps stony wings: Pickpocket starlings come; The quiet rat pillages. If I could lay a hand Upon that cold white head And plumb those glittering eyes And come to understand That savage cruel beak, I'd silence all those cries That desolate the land.

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