A Mocking-Bird
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An arrow, feathery, alive,
He darts and sings-
Then with a sudden skimming dive
Of striped wings
He finds a pine and, debonair,
Makes with his mate
All birds that ever rested there
Articulate.
The whisper of a multitude
Of happy wings
Is round him, a returning brood,
Each time he sings.
Though heaven be not for them or him
Yet he is wise
And tiptoes daily on the rim
Of paradise.
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