There is a bird who, by his coat <br />And by the hoarseness of his note, <br />Might be supposed a crow; <br />A great frequenter of the church, <br />Where, bishop-like, he finds a perch, <br />And dormitory too. <br /> <br />Above the steeple shines a plate, <br />That turns and turns, to indicate <br />From what point blows the weather. <br />Look up -- your brains begin to swim, <br />'Tis in the clouds -- that pleases him, <br />He chooses it the rather. <br /> <br />Fond of the speculative height, <br />Thither he wings his airy flight, <br />And thence securely sees <br />The bustle and the rareeshow, <br />That occupy mankind below, <br />Secure and at his ease. <br /> <br />You think, no doubt, he sits and muses <br />On future broken bones and bruises, <br />If he should chance to fall. <br />No; not a single thought like that <br />Employs his philosophic pate, <br />Or troubles it at all. <br /> <br />He sees that this great roundabout, <br />The world, with all its motley rout, <br />Church, army, physic, law, <br />Its customs and its businesses, <br />Is no concern at all of his, <br />And says -- what says he? -- Caw. <br /> <br />Thrice happy bird! I too have seen <br />Much of the vanities of men; <br />And, sick of having seen 'em, <br />Would cheerfully these limbs resign <br />For such a pair of wings as thine <br />And such a head between 'em.<br /><br />William Cowper<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-jackdaw/
