A Question
O BIRD with heart of wassail,That toss the Bacchic branch,And slip your shaken music,An elfin avalanche;
Come tell me, O tell me,My poet of the blue!What’s your thought of me, Sweet?—Here’s my thought of you.
A small thing, a wee thing,A brown fleck of nought;With winging and singingThat who could have thought?
A small thing, a wee thing,A brown amaze withal,That fly a pitch more azureBecause you’re so small.
Bird, I’m a small thing—My angel descries;With winging and singingThat who could surmise?
Ah, small things, ah, wee things,Are the poets all,Whose tour’s the more azureBecause they’re so small.
The angels hang watchingThe tiny men-things:—‘The dear speck of flesh, see,With such daring wings!
‘Come, tell us, O tell us,Thou strange mortality!What’s thy thought of us, Dear?—Here’s our thought of thee.’
‘Alack! you tall angels,I can’t think so high!I can’t think what it feels likeNot to be I.’
Come tell me, O tell me,My poet of the blue!What’s your thought of me, Sweet?—Here’s my thought of you.