The Pheasant Speaks of His Birthdays

Up the good slope of Going-To-The-Sun,
I saw the Pheasant-Of-The-Sunrise fly.
Jewels in his feathers, mixed with dew.
Dew and jewels made his jeweled eye.
He paused to make a sonnet, which he sang,
Though nowhere else are pheasants sonneteers.
He emphasized with swooping and with skipping,
With winkings and intoxicated leers.
And how the bushes twinkled as he caroled:

"Each morning is another birthday, friend.
And I have lived so many happy birthdays!
There are gifts with all the suns that here ascend!
Each bush, you see, has an unextinguished candle
And angel-food, and icing, and candy flowers,
And this long vine that climbs from earth to heaven
Gives me thoughts, and most erratic powers.
I eat its scarlet berries and its frosting.
If I choose, it is my present every day.
Then I can fly straight up to heaven's doorstep
Following the green line all the way.

"And then I tumble like a limber leaf
To my nest here, and another year is done
Or another thousand years, what does it matter
On the mountain peak called 'Going-To-The-Sun'?"