When to the Birds their Morning Meal I Threw

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!