Arthur Christopher Benson (1862–1925)

BY feathers green, across Casbeen

The pilgrims track the Phoenix flown,

By gems he strew’d in waste and wood,

And jewell’d plumes at random thrown.

Till wandering far, by moon and star,

They stand beside the fruitful pyre,

Where breaking bright with sanguine light

The impulsive bird forgets his sire.

Those ashes shine like ruby wine,

Like bag of Tyrian murex spilt,

The claw, the jowl of the flying fowl

Are with the glorious anguish gilt.

So rare the light, so rich the sight,

Those pilgrim men, on profit bent,

Drop hands and eyes and merchandise,

And are with gazing most content.