Marianne Moore

To a Prize Bird

You suit me well; for you can make me laugh,
Nor are you blinded by the chaff
	That every wind sends spinning from the rick.
You know to think, and what you think you speak
With much of Samson’s pride and bleak
	Finality; and none dare bid you stop.

Pride sits you well, so strut, colossal bird.
No barnyard makes you look absurd;
	Your brazen claws are staunched against defeat.