Humming Birds

The insect birds that suck nectareous juice
From straightest tubes of curly-petaled flowers,
Or catch the honey-dew that falls profuse
Through the soft air, distil'd in viewless showers
Whose colours seem the very souls of gems,
Or parting rays of fading diadems: —

I have but seen their feathers,—that is all.
As much as we can know of poets dead
Or living; but the gilded plumes that fall
Float on the earth, or in the wind dispread
Go everywhere to beautify the breeze.
Sweet wind, surcharged with treasures such as these,

I may not feel: —I never may behold
The spark of life, that trimm’d in garb so bright
That flying quintessence of ruby, gold,
Mild emerald, and lucid chrysolite.
Yet am I glad that life and joy were there,
That the small creature was as blithe as fair.