"Oh pale and britttle pencils ever to try
One grass-blade's curve, or the throat of one bird
That clings to twig, ruffled against the sky.
Oh cracked and twilight mirrors ever to catch
One color, one glinting flash, of the splendor of things . . .
The lion beauty, the wild-swan wings, the storm of the wings . . .
This wild swan of a world is no hunter's game.
Better bullets than yours would miss the white breast,
Better mirrors than yours would crack in the flame . . .
Love your eyes that can see, your mind that can
Hear the music, the thunder of the wings. Love the wild swan."
All too true—as I discover every time I try to "take" or "capture" something. It rushes away as I stand there poised, waiting, and so, so often, missing the wild swan of this world! Often, it is better just to see and hear and love the wild swan . . .