The Peacock

by William Butler Yeats

    What's riches to him
    That has made a great peacock
    With the pride of his eye?
    The wind-beaten, stone-grey,
    And desolate Three-rock
    Would nourish his whim.
    Live he or die
    Amid wet rocks and heather,
    His ghost will be gay
    Adding feather to feather
    For the pride of his eye.