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Francis Thompson - A Question
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O bird with heart of wassail,
  That toss the Bacchic branch,
And slip your shaken music,
  An elfin avalanche;

Come tell me, O tell me,
  My poet of the blue!
What`s YOUR thought of me, Sweet?--
  Here`s MY thought of you.

A small thing, a wee thing,
  A brown fleck of nought;
With winging and singing
  That who could have thought?

A small thing, a wee thing,
  A brown amaze withal,
That fly a pitch more azure
  Because you`re so small.

Bird, I`m a small thing--
  My angel descries;
With winging and singing
  That who could surmise?

Ah, small things, ah, wee things,
  Are the poets all,
Whose tour`s the more azure
  Because they`re so small.

The angels hang watching
  The tiny men-things:-
`The dear speck of flesh, see,
  With such daring wings!

`Come, tell us, O tell us,
  Thou strange mortality!
What`s THY thought of us, Dear?--
  Here`s OUR thought of thee.`

`Alack! you tall angels,
  I can`t think so high!
I can`t think what it feels like
  Not to be I.`

Come tell me, O tell me,
  My poet of the blue!
What`s YOUR thought of me, Sweet?--
  Here`s MY thought of you.
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