THE HUMMING-BIRD

Is it a monster bee,

Or is it a midget bird,

Or yet an air-born mystery

That now yon marigold has stirred,

And now on vocal wing

To a neighbour bloom has whirred

In an aëry ecstasy, in a passion of pilfering?

Ah! ’tis the Humming-bird,

Rich-coated one,

Ruby-throated one,

That is not chosen for song,

But throws its whole rapt sprite

Into the secrets of flowers

The summer days along,

Into most odorous hours

It’s a murmurous sound of wings too swift for sight.

—Richard Burton.