Elinor Wylie
Reading edition
(With an air of admitting the tragic and all-important fact.)
THE GRACKLE IS THE LOON
Never believe this bird connotes Jade whorls of carven commonness: Nor as from ordinary throats Slides his sharp song in ice-strung stress. He is the cold and scornful Loon, Who, hoping that the sun shall fail, Steeps in the silver of the moon His burnished claws, his chiseled tail.