Procne 

(written by Peter Quennell, 1921, in Kent)

So she became a bird and bird-like danced

On a long sloe-bough, treading the silver blossom

With a bird’s lovely feet,

And shaken blossoms fell into the hands

Of sunlight, and he held them for a moment

And let them drop.

And in the autumn Procne came again

And leapt upon the crooked sloe-bough singing

And the dark berries winked like earth-dimmed beads,

As the branch swung beneath her dancing feet.