No, Pigeon, I’m Too Wise
No, pigeon, I’m too wise;
No sky for me that carries
Its shining clouds for you;
Sky has not loved me much,
And if it did, who should I have
To wing my shoulders and my feet?
There’s no way.
Ah, nightingale, my voice
Could never touch your spinning notes,
Nor be so clear.
I’m not secure enough
To tell what note I could reach if I tried,
But no high tree for me
With branches waiting for a singing bird,
And every nightingale a swan
Who sails on tides of leaves and sound.
I’m all for ground,
To touch what’s to be touched,
To imitate myself mechanically,
Doing my little tricks of speech again
With all my usual care.
No bird for me:
He flies too high.