This little midget with throat of red,
That hums through the air like a bee;
Is it a bird or a fairy instead,
That hovers for mortals to see?
Or is it a flower with silvery wing,
Content to fly though it never may sing?
On soft summer days, where the Jewel-weed grows,
This flash from the Tropics may seem,
In its darting and dashing wherever it goes,
To be like the thread of a dream