Our little bird in his full day of health With his gold-coated beauty made us glad, But when disease approached with cruel stealth, A sadder interest our smiles forbad. How oft we watched him, when the night hours came, His poor head buried near his bursting heart, Which beat within a puft, and played his part: The seed-glass, slighted by his sickening taste, The little moulted feathers, saffron-tipt, The fountain, where his fever'd bill was dipt, The perches, which his failing feet embraced, All these remain-- not even his bath removed -- But where's the spray and flutter that we loved? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON THE DEATH OF SWINBURNE by SARA TEASDALE ON ANOTHER'S SORROW, FR. SONGS OF INNOCENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE THE VANISHING BOAT by EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE A SHROPSHIRE LAD: 21. BREDON HILL by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN AN ORCHARD AT AVIGNON by AGNES MARY F. ROBINSON THE BAREFOOT BOY by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER ON SEEING BLENHEIM CASTLE by LUCY AIKEN SATIRE: 6 by AULUS PERSIUS FLACCUS THE GOLDEN ODES OF PRE-ISLAMIC ARABIA: IMR EL KAIS by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |