Poems By Mary Elizabeth Coleridge |
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| CL. |
| CLI. |
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| CLVI. |
| CLVII. | CLVIIIN LONDON TOWN |
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| CLIX. |
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| CLXV. |
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| CLXXVII. |
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| CLXXX. |
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| CLXXXVII. |
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| CLXXXIX. |
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| CCXXXVII. |
 | Poems |  |
CLVII
IN LONDON TOWN
It was a bird of Paradise,
Over the roofs he flew.
All the children, in a trice,
Clapped their hands and cried, “How nice!”
“Look—his wings are blue!”
Over the roofs he flew.
All the children, in a trice,
153
“Look—his wings are blue!”
His body was of ruby red,
His eyes were burning gold.
All the grown-up people said,
“What a pity the creature is not dead,
For then it could be sold!”
His eyes were burning gold.
All the grown-up people said,
“What a pity the creature is not dead,
For then it could be sold!”
One was braver than the rest.
He took a loaded gun;
Aiming at the emerald crest,
He shot the creature through the breast.
Down it fell in the sun.
He took a loaded gun;
Aiming at the emerald crest,
He shot the creature through the breast.
Down it fell in the sun.
It was not heavy, it was not fat,
And folk began to stare.
“We cannot eat it, that is flat!
And such outlandish feathers as that
Why, who could ever wear?”
And folk began to stare.
“We cannot eat it, that is flat!
And such outlandish feathers as that
Why, who could ever wear?”
154
They flung it into the river brown.
“A pity the creature died!”
With a smile and with a frown,
Thus they did in London town;
But all the children cried.
“A pity the creature died!”
With a smile and with a frown,
Thus they did in London town;
But all the children cried.
| Poems | |