How falls it, oriole, thou hast come to fly
In tropic splendor through our Northern sky?
At some glad moment was it nature’s choice
To dower a scrap of sunset with a voice?
Or did some orange tulip, flaked with black,
In some forgotten garden, ages back,
Yearning toward Heaven until its wish was heard,
Desire unspeakably to be a bird?
I didn’t forget my grids when I was at the beach. When I add neutrals to each color, it reminds me of nature in some way. Birds often come to mind…
Edgar Fawcett was a 19th century American writer who wrote satirical society novels and science fiction as well as poetry. Although never loved by critics, he was well-known during his lifetime. He is largely forgotten today, although some of the biographical material I read online urges revival of a few of his science fiction books. He was also evidently a prolific writer of sonnets. The image of the tulip turning into a bird he uses here had an immediate appeal to me.