The Peacock Hidden hearts of
His jeweled feathers
Glance against the sun,
Hurrying, with pride,
To catch a fleeting light.

Begging in a dappled walk,
He sets aside the scent
Of the green
And moves like nature’s flint
And crystal, caught securely.

His dance
Is a wish upon his back
Color eternal, consummate
In a plumed revival,
Easier will be its flight.

• Marianne Moore