A Poet’s Walk

Once his way a poet took Through a deep and dewy glen; Write about me in your book! Cried the redbreast, cried the wren.

Twittering low from every bush, Chirping loud from every tree, Cried the pewet, cried the thrush, Cried the blackbird, write of me!

Sing about my eyes, my wings,— Mine is but a humble boon,— So they cried, the silly things! Crossing each the other’s tune.

But the poet, sign of grace Giving not by look or tone, Turned into a shady place, Where a daisy lived alone.

All her modest shoulders hid In a veil of leaves of grass, Dropping either snowy lid Sat she still to see him pass.

Then the poet, with a quill That some eager bird had shook Downward, all against her will, Wrote about her in his book.