The Singing Garden

Currawong, Pied

C.J. Dennis

I AM the cunning one. My shrewd white eye,
    Peeping from out some hidden harbour green,
Watches your household. Patiently I spy
    Until I learn by heart its whole routine.
            Myself unseen.
I witness, with sagacity profound,
Comings and goings in your daily round.
            And what they mean.

I know what hour each morn the fowls are fed
    When laurel berries ripen, too, I know.
I know when you’ll come out to scatter bread
    For wren and robin twittering below,
            Where roses blow.
When you take tea upon the lawn, I’m there
Waiting the quiet hour; then forth I dare
            To glean my share.

I am the cunning one. I know too well
    Base human treacheries. Not over shy,
I am too wise to fall beneath the spell
    Of pretty blandishments. My shrewd white eye
            Has told me why.
A friendliness, too easily begun,
Might, thro’ my pilferings, find me undone—
            The cunning one.

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