Silver Bird

O now I am a silver bird:

And I am dark and many-souled

Who loves green sunny palms, or cold;

And relishes in one sweet word

What takes two epics to have told.

I love pure taste, or mixed; and bred

On what is not, nor sound nor smell,

I love all this but not too well

To be sweet wine and honey fed

And hear sweet music from a shell.

And sisters of my soul, twin-born

Like sun and moon, or good and evil,

Haunt me; and one I put to scorn

With golden bugles of the morn,

And one with dark horns of the devil.