“t was a bird of Paradise,
Over the roofs he flew.
All the children, in a trice,
Clapped their hands and cried, “How nice!”
“Look — his wings are blue!”
His body was of ruby red,
His eyes were burning gold.
All the grown-up people said,
“What a pity the creature is not dead,
For then it could be sold!””
(M. Coleridge in London town)
Seraing (B)
