"Two little blackbirds sat upon a hill,

One named Jack, the other named Jill

Fly away, Jack! fly away, Jill!

Come again, Jack! come again, Jill!"

I half suspect that, after all,

There's just the smallest bit

Of inequality between

The witling and the wit.

'Tis only mental nimbleness:

No language ever brought

A living word to soul of man

But had the latent thought.

You may meet, among the million,

Good people every day,—

Unconscious martyrs to their fate,—

Who seem, in half they say,

On the brink of something brilliant

They were almost sure to clinch,

Yet, by some queer freak of fortune,

Just escape it by an inch!

I often think the selfsame shade,—

This difference of a hair,—

Divides between the men of nought

And those who do and dare.

An instant cometh on the wing,

Bearing a kingly crown:

This man is dazzled and lets it by—

That seizes and brings it down.

Winged things may stoop to any door

Alighting close and low;

And up and down, 'twixt earth and sky,

Do always come and go.

Swift, fluttering glimpses touch us all,

Yet, prithee, what avails?

'Tis only Genius that can put

The salt upon their tails!