He stooped down suddenly and thrust his hand
Into a tunnel in the shallow sand
Beneath a campion-clump, and brought to light
A brooding puffin with black wings clasped tight
To her white breast: but, twisting round her sleek
Pied darting head, her scarlet razor-beak
She snapped in anger, cutting his finger clean
To the very bone; and on the clump of green
Among the campion blossoms white as foam
He dropped the bird, and watched her scurry home,
And laughed, while from his wounded finger dripped
Blood redder even than the beak that ripped
The flesh so cruelly, and, chuckling, said —
Well, anyhow, the blood still runs as red
In my old veins as when I saw it spill
The first time that I felt a puffin's bill
Long years since: and it seems as though I had
As little sense as when I was a lad
To let myself be caught so easily,
And that brave bird make such a fool of me,
Who thought myself as wise as Solomon.
Yet it is better to feel a fool's blood run
Still quick and lively through the veins, and be
A living fool beside the April sea,
Than lie like Solomon in his unknown grave,
A pinch of dry dust that no wit could save.