Now we lament one Who danced on a plume of words, Sang with a fountain's panache, Dazzled like slate roofs in sun After rain, was flighty as birds And alone as a mountain ash. The ribald, inspired urchin Leaning over the lip Of his world, as over a rock pool Or a lucky dip, Found everything brilliant and virgin.

-Day-Lewis, Cecil
  'In Memory of Dylan Thomas'.

An aged thrush, frail, gaunt and small, In blast-beruffled plume, Had chosen thus to fling his sail Upon the growing gloom. So little cause for carollings Of such ecstatic sound Was written on terrestrial things Afar or nigh around, That I could think there trembled through 382 His happy good-night air Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew And I was unaware.

-Hardy,Thomas
  'The Darkling Thrush'.

Sir Plume, of amber snuff-box justly vain, And the nice conduct of a clouded cane.

-Pope, Alexander
  The Rape of the Lock, canto 4, l.123^4.

Like some full-breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs.

-Tennyson
  Idylls of the King,'The Passing of Arthur', l.434^7.