I AM a willow-wren: I twitter in the grass on the chimney-top; The apples far below will never drop Or turn quite bright, though when The aimless wind is still I stand upon the big ones and I peck And find soft places, leaving spot and speck When I have munched my fill. Apples and plums I know (Plums are dark weights and full of golden rain That wets neck-feathers when I dip and strain, And stickies each plumy row), But past my well-kept trees The quick small woman in her puffy gown, That flutters as if its sleeves and skirts had grown For flying and airy ease, Has planted little bushes Of large cool leaves that cover and shade and hide Things redder than plums and with gold dimples pied, Dropping on new-cut rushes. At first I thought with spite Such heady scent was only a flower's wide cup; But flower-scents never made my throat close up, And so I stood in my flight. Yet over all there sways A web like those revealed by dawn and dew -- But not like those, that break and let me through Shivering the drops all ways. Though I alight and swing I never reach the things that tumble and crush, And if I had such long large legs as a thrush The web would tangle and cling. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE DARK-EYED GENTLEMAN by THOMAS HARDY TAM I' THE KIRK by VIOLET JACOB TOUJOURS AMOUR by EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN TABULA SECUNDA IN NAUFRAGIO by JOSEPH BEAUMONT AN IRISH FANTASY by JOHN FRANKLIN BLUNT THE PAINTED CUP by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT ANSWER TO LINES WRITTEN IN ROUSSEAU'S LETTERS OF AN ITALIAN NUN by GEORGE GORDON BYRON |