Pride

His feathers bloomed like jeweled skies,
With emerald fire and sapphire flame;
A hundred painted, watching eyes
Seemed whispering softly of his fame.

He turned beneath the golden sun,
A monarch dressed in living art;
Each graceful step a song begun,
Each plume the language of his heart.

The wind bowed low to see him dance,
The trees grew still along the way;
Even the roses stole a glance
To watch his bright and proud display.

Yet pride, though clothed in splendid light,
Can fade like twilight after rain;
For beauty shines the most when bright
With kindness free from boast or stain.