When to the birds their morning meal I threw,
Beside one pretty candidate for bread
There flash'd and wink’d a tiny drop of dew;
But while I gazed, I lost them, both had fled;
His careless tread had struck the blade-hung tear,
And all its silent beauty fell away;
And left, sole relic of the twinkling sphere,
A sparrow’s dabbled foot upon a spray.
Bold bird! that didst efface a lovely thing
Before a poet's eyes! I've half a mind,
Could I but single thee from out thy kind,
To mulct thee in a crumb; a crumb to thee
Is not more sweet than that fair drop to me;
Fie on thy little foot and thrumming wing!