Good morrow to thy sable beak,
And glossy plumage, dark and sleek,
Thy crimson moon, and azure eye,
Cock of the heath, so wildly shy!
I see thee, slyly cowering, through
That wiry web of silver dew,
That twinkles in the morning air,
Like casement of my Lady fair.

A maid there is in yonder tower,
Who, peeping from her early bower,
Half shews, like thee, with simple wile,
Her braided hair, and morning smile.
The rarest things, with wayward will,
Beneath the covert hide them still:
The rarest things to light of day,
Look shortly forth, and shrink away.