The bird is my neighbour, a whimsical fellow and dim:
There is in the lake a nobility falling on him.
The bird is a noble, he turns to the sky for a theme,
And ripples are thoughts coming out to the edge of a dream.
He bleats no instruction, he is not an arrogant drummer:
His gown is simplicity � blue as the smoke of the Summer.
The bird is both ancient and excellent, sober and wise,
But he never could spend all the love that is sent for his eyes.
How patient he is as he puts out his wings for the blue:
He is an old guest of the sunlight � a child of the dew.
I always liked John Shaw Neilson. There's a furious textual argument over whther Line 3 reads this way or:
And waves are as thoughts coming out to the edge of a dream
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