Phoenix bird! Don't you know him?
The bird of paradise, the holy swan of song?
He sat on the
car of Thespis, like a chattering raven, flapping his black gutter-stained
wings
the swan's red, sounding beak swept over the singing harp of Iceland
he
sat on Shakespeare's shoulder
disguised as Odin's raven, and whispered,
"Immortality!" into his ear
and at the minstrels' feast he fluttered
through the halls of the Wartburg.
Phoenix bird! Don't you know him?
He sang the Marseillaise
to you, and you kissed the feather that fell from his wing
he came in the
glory of paradise, and perhaps you turned away from him toward the sparrow that
sat with gold tinsel on its wings.
The bird of paradise-renewed each century-born in flame,
dying in flame!
Your portrait in a frame of gold hangs in the halls of the
rich,
but you yourself often fly around lonely and misunderstood-a myth only.
"The phoenix bird of Arabia."
When you were born in the garden of paradise
in its first
rose, beneath the tree of knowledge
our Lord kissed you and gave you your true
name-poetry!
~Hans Christian Andersen