THOU insect bird! thou plumed bee! The muse attunes her lay to thee, Of all that spread the tiny wing, And float upon the gales of spring, None boast so fine a form as thine, No flower has hues that can out-shine The crimson down thy neck that rings, The verdant gold that tints thy wings; To leave the leaf by zephyr borne, And rove the roscid meads at morn, Or down the garden's alleys wing, And seem the fairy power of spring, That views her buds with anxious care And fans them with her softest air. Such is the life decreed to thee, So blissful do thy moments flee; And when thy darling flowers at last Fade and die by winter's blast, Thou fliest where happy instinct leads, And sport'st with spring on other meads. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HIC VIR, HIC EST' by CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY AT CANDLE-LIGHTIN' TIME by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR SONNET: SILENCE by THOMAS HOOD COBWEBS by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI PORTRAIT SONNETS: 3 by HENRY BELLAMANN SONNET: MAN VERSUS ASCETIC. 6 by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON THE TOMBS OF THE KINGS by MATHILDE BLIND |