Stormcock in Elder In my dark hermitage, aloof From the world's sight and the world's sound, By the small door where the old roof Hangs but five feet above the ground, I groped along the shelf for bread But found celestial food instead: For suddenly close at my ear, Loud, loud and wild, with wintry glee, The old unfailing chorister Burst out in pride of poetry; And through the broken roof I spied Him by his singing glorified. Scarcely an arm's-length from the eye, Myself unseen, I saw him there; The throbbing throat that made the cry, The breast dewed from the misty air, The polished bill that opened wide And showed the pointed tongue inside; The large eye, ringed with many a ray Of minion feathers, finely laid, The feet that grasped the elder-spray; How strongly used, how subtly made The scale, the sinew, and the claw, Plain through the broken roof I saw; The flight-feathers in tail and wing, The shorter coverts, and the white Merged into russet, marrying The bright breast to the pinions bright, Gold sequins, spots of chestnut, shower Of silver, like a brindled flower. Soldier of fortune, northwest Jack, Old hard-times' braggart, there you blow But tell me ere your bagpipes crack How you can make so brave a show, Full-fed in February, and dressed Like a rich merchant at a feast. One-half the world, or so they say, Knows not how half the world may live; So sing your song and go your way, And still in February contrive As bright as Gabriel to smile On elder-spray by broken tile. (Ruth Pitter)