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 a tropic indigo
Or dull the parable of snow.
Now setting one by one
Within gree hollows or where curled
Crests caught the ppectrum from the sun,
A thousand wings furled.
No clay-born lilies of the world
Could blow as free As those wild orchids of the sea.
--E. J. Pratt
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