CRUMBS.
Reading edition
p to my frozen window-shelf
Each day a begging birdie comes,
And when I have a crust myself
The birdie always gets the crumbs.
They say who on the water throws His bread, will get it back again; If that is true, perhaps—who knows?— I have not cast my crumbs in vain.
Indeed, I know it is not quite The thing to boast of one’s good deed; To what the left hand does, the right, I am aware, should pay no heed. Yet if in modest verse I tell My tale, some editor, maybe, May like it very much, and—well, My bread will then return to me.