E. J. Pratt – Seagulls
For one carved instant as they flew
The language had no simile–
Silver, crystal, ivory
Were tarnished. Etched upon the horizon blue,
The frieze must go unchallenged, for the lift
And carriage of the wings would stain the drift
Of stars against the tropic indigo,
Or dull the parable of snow.
Now settling, one by one,
Within green hollows, or where curled
Crests caught the spectrum from the sun,
A thousand wings unfurled.
No clay-born lilies of the world
Could blow as free
As those wild orchids of the sea.
55:3 p.23 (1930)