THE SINGING GARDEN

The White Cockatoo

They count me but a common bird,
      Unworthy of respect,
  Who see me chained, with mien absurd
  Striving to croak some alien word
      Of some strange dialect;
  A captive robbed of freedom’s right,
  To be a clown for man’s delight.

But  where, in blue skies, wild and free,
      My gleaming cohorts go,
  Screaming in joyous ecstasy,
  To settle on some withered tree
      Like sudden failing snow,
  Or great white blossoms heaven sent—
  Here am I in my element.

Come,  seek me then to be clown
      For man’s divertisement!
  For as the great flock settles down
  To raid your fields by bush or town,
      High is my sentry sent
  To watch from out the topmost tree
  With keen, unwinking scrutiny.

Now, let the smallest sign denote
      Some threat of danger nigh,
  And sudden, from a screaming throat
  He sounds his warning trumpet note.
      His golden crest held high,
  And we are gone, like drifting snow,
  Shrieking derision as we go.