For metal birds I’d have never thought,
That proper words would e'er be sought
for poetic composition!
But on an urn did John Keats cry
And Blake, on "fearful symmetry",
Quest'ning with Powerful passion!
Can we too ask if, when or whether,
With birds of steel, so stiff of feather,
A poem could e’er be urged?
They watch unseeing, the electric wire,
which no words, e'en fleeting, inspire.
On the morning’s wistful shadows though, words splurge!
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