The bird would cease and be as other birds
But that he knows in singing not to sing.
The question that he frames in all but words
Is what to make of a diminished thing.
— Robert Frost
I’ve traveled miles and miles to find a bird
That’s different than the usual sorts I see
To supplement the life list that I keep
(To know the lovely dark and deep)
And live beyond the world surrounding me.
The bird I seek may have a special song
Or brilliant feathers or a way about it
That separates it from the daily throng
(Persisted in the woods so long)
And justifies the miles that I’ve devoted.
Perhaps the place I go they call a bird
Exotic that’s so everyday to me
I hardly hear (lost in the sweep
Of easy wind) its ordinary cheep;
Its ordinary looks I barely see.
And in this place, they keep lists of their own
And travel miles and miles just to find
Within the dreary world from which I came
(Having perhaps the better claim)
The gardenful of birds I’ve left behind.
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