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C.D. Warner, et al., comp.  The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes.  1917.
 
The Humming-Bird
By Jones Very (1813–1880)
 
I CANNOT heal thy green-gold breast,
Where deep those cruel teeth have prest;
Nor bid thee raise thy ruffled crest,
        And seek thy mate,
Who sits alone within thy nest,        5
        Nor sees thy fate.
 
No more with him in summer hours
Thou’lt hum amid the leafy bowers,
Nor hover round the dewy flowers,
        To feed thy young;        10
Nor seek, when evening darkly lowers,
        Thy nest high hung.
 
No more thou’lt know a mother’s care
Thy honeyed spoils at eve to share;
Nor teach thy tender brood to dare,        15
        With upward spring,
Their path through fields of sunny air,
        On new-fledged wing.
 
For thy return in vain shall wait
Thy tender young, thy fond, fond mate,        20
Till night’s last stars beam forth full late
        On their sad eyes:
Unknown, alas! thy cruel fate,
        Unheard thy cries!
 
 
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