That seagull, perched upon the lamp-post high,

Unconscious of his perfect form and grace,

Is of created things more noble than

Those that he watches with unlidded eye

Passing below him.  He is, in his place,

Fulfilling what was shadowed in the plan

Of his creator.  His no feigned cry.

His utterances, though harsh, convey no trace

Of artifice ; and natural elan

Imbues his movement through the boundless sky.

We, who with conscious tread go on our way,

Eyes inward turned and minds confused by doubt,

Assuming that we know what we’re about,

Can only dimly sense his glorious day.


Weekly Times     11.5.62