Classic Poem

"What means your finch?"

"Being well aware that he cannot sing like a Nightingale,
He flits about from tree to tree, and twitters a little tale."

Albeit he is an ancient bird, who tried
his pipe in better days, and then was
scared by random shots, he is fain to
lift the migrant wing once more towards the
humble perch, among the trees he loves. All
gardeners own that he does no harm, unless
he flits into a thicket of young buds, or a very
choice ladies' seed-bed. And he hopes that he is
now too wise to commit such indiscretions.

Perhaps it would have been wiser still to
have shut up his little mandible, or employed it

only upon grub. But the long gnaw of last
winter's frost, which set mankind a-shivering,
even in their most downy nest, has made them
kindly to the race that has no roof for shelter
and no hearth for warmth.

Anyhow, this little finch can do no harm,
if he does no good; and if he pleases nobody,
he will not be surprised, because he has never
satisfied himself.







I

Thou feeble implement of mind,
Wherewith she strove to scrawl her
name;
But, like a mitcher, left behind
No signature, no stroke, no claim,
No hint that she hath pined--

Shall ever come a stronger time,
When thou shalt be a tool of skill,
And steadfast purpose, to fulfil
A higher task than rhyme?

II

Thou puny instrument of soul,
Wherewith she labours to impart
Her efforts at some arduous goal;
But fails to bring thy coarser art
Beneath a fine control--

Shall ever come a fairer day,
When thou shalt be a buoyant plume,
To soar, where clearer suns illume,
And fresher breezes play?





III

Thou weak interpreter of heart,
So impotent to tell the tale
Of love's delight, of envy's smart,
Of passion, and ambition's bale,
Of pride that dwells apart--

Shall I, in length of time, attain
(By walking in the human ways,
With love of Him, who made and sways)
To ply thee, less in vain?

If so, thou shalt be more to me
Than sword, or sceptre, flag, or crown;
With mind, and soul, and heart in thee,
Despising gold, and sham renown;

But truthful, kind, and free--
Then come; though now a pithless quill,
Uncouth, unfledged, indefinite,--
In time, thou shalt be taught to write,
By patience, and good-will.