A NEST IN A LYRE

As sign before a playhouse serves

A giant Lyre, ornately gilded,

On whose convenient coignes and curves

The pert brown sparrows late have builded.

They flit, and flirt, and prune their wings,

Not awed at all by golden glitter,

And make among the silent strings

Their satisfied ephemeral twitter.

Ah, somewhat so we perch and flit,

And spy some crumb and dash to win it,

And with a witty chirping twit

Our sheltering Time — there's nothing in it!

In Life's large frame, a glorious Lyre's,

We nest, content, our season flighty,

Nor guess we brush the powerful wires

Might witch the stars with music mighty.