Classic Poem

Poor little poet,
With voice that will not sing,
And timid, drooping wing
That will not graze the sky,
But o'er the dainty hedgerows
Wheels its tiny ring,
When none are nigh
To see it fly;
And timid feet that stray
Not far away,
But where the wild-rose blows
Have learned to cling
To slender twigs and sprays,
In narrow, grassy ways,
In nooks where none can spy.
Out of thine eye,
O little poet shy,
Looks deep, full-throated praise.
No need to raise
Thy tiny pipe on high.
Enough for us
That thou look'st thus;
Thou need'st not sing,
O little poet.