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Home  »  Poetry: A Magazine of Verse  »  Max Michelson

Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.

The Bird

Max Michelson

From a branch

The bird called:

I hold your heart!

I wash it,

And scour it

With bits of song

Like pebbles;

And your doubts

And your sorrows

Fall—drip, drip, drip—

Like dirty water.

I pipe to it

In little notes

Of life clear as a pool,

And of death

Clearer still;

And I swoop with it

In the blue

And in the nest

Of a cloud.