And the spider-wort wrapped in a cloud?
Have you not plenty of sunshine and dew,
And crowds of gay gossips to visit you?
How you flutter, and reach, and climb!
How eager your wee faces are!
Aye, turned to the light till the blind old night
Is led to the world by a star.
Well, it surely is hard to feel one’s wings,
And still be prisoned like wingless things.
“Tweet, tweet,” then says Parson Thrush,