THE HUMMING-BIRD
Is it a monster bee,
Or is it a midget bird,
Or yet an air-born mystery
That now yon marigold has stirred,
And now on vocal wing
To a neighbour bloom has whirred
In an aëry ecstasy, in a passion of pilfering?
Ah! ’tis the Humming-bird,
Rich-coated one,
Ruby-throated one,
That is not chosen for song,
But throws its whole rapt sprite
Into the secrets of flowers
The summer days along,
Into most odorous hours
It’s a murmurous sound of wings too swift for sight.
—Richard Burton.