  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. |
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