For one carved instant as they flew The language had no
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 settling one by one
Within green hollows or where curled
Crest caught the spectrum from the sun,
A thousand wings are furled.
No clay-born lilies of the world Could blow as free
As those wild orchids of the sea.
E. J. Pratt
Many Moods (Macmillan 1932, p. 9)