Crumbs

Up to my frozen window-shelf Each day a begging birdie comes, And when I have a crust myself The birdie always gets the crumbs.

They say who on the water throws His bread, will get it back again; If that is true, perhaps--who knows?-- I have not cast my crumbs in vain.

Indeed, I know it is not quite The thing to boast of one’s good deed; To what the left hand does, the right, I am aware, should pay no heed.

Yet if in modest verse I tell My tale, some editor, maybe, May like it very much, and--well, My bread will then return to me.