The Mocking-Bird
Superb and sole, upon a plumed sprayThat o’er the general leafage boldly grew,He summ’d the woods in song; or typic drewThe watch of hungry hawks, the lone dismayOf languid doves when long their lovers stray,And all birds’ passion-plays that sprinkle dewAt morn in brake or bosky avenue.Whate’er birds did or dreamed, this bird could say.Then down he shot, bounced airily alongThe sward, twitched in a grasshopper, made songMidflight, perched, prinked, and to his art again.Sweet Science, this large riddle read me plain:How may the death of that dull insect beThe life of yon trim Shakespeare on the tree?