" To a prize bird "

You suit me well, for you can make me laugh
nor are you blinded by the chaff
    That every wind sends spinning from the rick.

You know to think, and what you think you speak
with much of Samson's pride and bleak
    finality, and none dare bid you stop.

Pride sits you well, so strut, colossal bird.
No barnyard makes you look absurd;
     you brazen claws are staunch against defeat.

    Moore, Marianne. Poesía Reunida ( 1915 - 1951 ). Madrid: Hiperión, 1996, p 86.