Sitting in Michael's Lap
How hath the raven spurned her sable gown,
And shed the rightful plumage of her kind,
To seek a flock of happier reknown,
That please the eye, but suffocate the mind?
How wilt the hawk, with lethal talon bare,
And razor beak of predatory grace
Renounce his kill for less appealing fare,
That he may show the world a gentle face?
How shalt the owl, aloft on silent wings,
Who breathes his haunting call beneath the moon,
Embrace the day, and warble brighter things,
That none may be displease'd by his tune?
Make no pretense, but hold thy head with pride
That Nature's careful hand be not denied
You cannot choose the way of your death, but the path you choose will determine its own end.
[This message has been edited by Skyfyre (edited 12-09-1999).]