Ix

If hunger, proverbs say, allures the wolf from wood, Much more the bird must dare a dash at something good: Must snatch up, bear away in beak, the trifle-treasure To wood and wild, and then--oh, how enjoy at leisure! Was never tree-built nest, you climbed and took, of bird, (Rare city-visitant, talked of, scarce seen or heard,) But, when you would dissect the structure, piece by piece, You found, enwreathed amid the country-product --fleece And feather, thistle-fluffs and bearded windle-straws Some shred of foreign silk, unravelling of gauze, Bit, maybe, of brocade, mid fur and blow-bell-down: Filched plainly from mankind, dear tribute paid by town, Which proved how oft the bird had plucked up heart of grace, Swooped down at waif and stray, made furtively our place Pay tax and toll, then borne the booty to enrich Her paradise i' the waste; the how and why of which, That is the secret, there the mystery that stings!