Oh never in this hard world was such an absurd Charming utterly disarming little bird, The mossy green, the sunlit honey-eater That darts from scribbly-gum to banksia tree And lights upon the head of my small daughter. It must decide, for men and birds alike, As pick-pick-pick it goes with its sharp beak, If so much trust is possible in Nature; And back it darts to that safe banksia tree Then swoops on my own head, the brave wild creature. It thinks it must have hair to line its nest
And hair will have, and it will chance the rest; And up and down my neck and then my daughter's Those prickly black feet run, that tugging beak, And loud like wind it whirrs its green wing-feathers. Then take your choice from me or those fair tresses You darting bird too shy for our caresses; There's just this gap in Nature and in man Where birds may perch on heads and pull out hair And if you want to chance it, well, you can.