The Mocking-Bird

Superb and sole, upon a plumed

That o'er the general leafage boldly grew,

He summ'd the woods in song; or typic

The watch of hungry hawks, the lone

Of languid doves when long their lovers stray,

And all birds' passion-plays that sprinkle

At morn in brake or bosky avenue.

Whate'er birds did or dreamed, this bird could say.

Then down he shot, bounced airily

The sward, twitched in a grasshopper, made

Midflight, perched, prinked, and to his art again.

Sweet Science, this large riddle read me plain:

How may the death of that dull insect

The life of yon trim Shakespeare on the tree?