This is a spray the Bird clung to,
Giving rise to its blossom with pleasure,
Ere the high tree-top, she sprung to,
Fit for her nest and her treasure
O, what a hope beyond measure
Was the low spray’s, which the flying feet hung to,—
So to be singled out, built-in, and sung to!
This is a heart the Queen leant on,
Thrilled in a minute erratic,
Ere the faithful bosom, she bent on,
Meet for love’s regal dalmatic
O, what a fancy ecstatic
Was the poor heart’s, ere the wanderer went on—
Love to be saved for it, proffered to, spent on!
Don’t say things you don’t mean.Wisdom