They say the freewheeling bird
will be strangled in telephone wire
because Icarus seared his wings
fecklessly flying too near the fire

They say he plummeted to green sea
and sunk, tangled in seaweed and string;
white ashes were lost in feather and foam—
but what else was expected from waxen wings?

Mine are a sable steel, I assure you,
and carry strong the reflection of the sun;
though its austere lines allure few,
(not being as romantic) it will do.