The crescent moon tilts higher, no longer an equinoctial smile, but a bowl being emptied. A spring night pours out, full of fresh scents and soft, rustling leaves. The softness drenches the forest, the chorus of frogs greets the pale light, bats flutter about feasting on the season's insect bounty. Buds are waiting to open when dawn bids them, sleeping birds perhaps dream of the songs they will sing tomorrow. A few clouds drift by, catching the light and transforming it into flowing draperies. This stage invites a soliloquy, but I stand alone amid this splendor and remain speechless.
No Swan So Fine
by Marianne Moore
"No water so still as the
dead fountains of Versailles." No swan,
with swart blind look askance
and gondoliering legs, so fine
as the chintz china one with fawn-
brown eyes and toothed gold
collar on to show whose bird it was.
Lodged in the Louis Fifteenth
candelabrum-tree of cockscomb-
tinted buttons, dahlias,
sea-urchins, and everlastings,
it perches on the branching foam
of polished sculptured
flowers—at ease and tall. The king is dead.