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His Bill is clasped-his Eye forsook-
His Feathers wilted low-
The Claws that clung, like lifeless Gloves
Indifferent hanging now-
The Joy that in his happy Throat
Was waiting to be poured
Gored through and through with Death, to be
Assassin of a Bird
Resembles to my outraged mind
The firing in Heaven,
On Angels-squandering for you
Their Miracles of Tune-