The Titmouse 



As fits a feathered lord of land ; 

 Flew near, with soft wing grazed my hand, 

 Hopped on the bough, then, darting low, 

 Prints his small impress on the snow, 

 Shows feats of his gymnastic play 

 Head downward, clinging to the spray. 



Here was this atom in full breath, 



Hurling defiance at vast death; 



This scrap of valor just for play 



Fronts the north-wind in waistcoat gray, 



As if to shame my weak behavior; 



I greeted loud my little savior, 



"You pet! what dost here? and what for? 



In these woods, thy small Labrador, 



At this pinch, wee San Salvador! 



What fire burns in that little chest 



So frolic, stout and self-possest? 



Henceforth I wear no stripe but thine; 



Ashes and jet all hues outshine. 



Why are not diamonds black and gray, 



To ape thy dare-devil array? 



And I affirm, the spacious North 



Exists to draw thy virtue forth. 



I think no virtue goes with size; 



The reason of all cowardice 



Is, that men are overgrown, 



And, to be valiant, must come down 



To the titmouse dimension." 



'Tis good-will makes intelligence, 



And I began to catch the sense 



52 



