On light little wings as the humming-birds fly,
With plumes many-hued as the bow of the sky,
Suspended in ether, they shine to the light
As jewels of nature high-finished and bright.

Their vision-like forms are so buoyant and small
They hang o’er the flowers, as too airy to fall,
Up-borne by their beautiful pinions, that seem
Like glittering vapor, or parts of a dream.

The humming-bird feeds upon honey; and so,
Of course, ’tis a sweet little creature, you know. 
But sweet little creatures have sometimes, they say,
A great deal that’s bitter, or sour, to betray!

And often the humming-bird’s delicate breast
Is found of a very high temper possessed. 
Such essence of anger within it is pent,
’Twould burst did no safety-valve give it a vent.

Displeased, it will seem a bright vial of wrath,
Uncorked by its heat, the offender to scath;
And, taking occasion to let off its ire,
’Tis startling to witness how high it will fire.

A humming-bird once o’er a trumpet-flower hung,
And darted that sharp little member, the tongue,
At once to the nectarine cell, for the sweet
She felt at the bottom most certain to meet.

But, finding some other light child of the air
To rifle its store, had already been there;
And no drop of honey for her to draw up,
Her vengeance broke forth on the destitute cup.

She flew in a passion, that heightened her power;
And cuffing, and shaking the innocent flower,
Its tender corolla in shred after shred
She hastily stripped; then she snapped off its head.

A delicate ruin, on earth as it lay,
That bright little fury went, humming, away,
With gossamer softness, and fair to the eye,
Like some living brilliant, just dropped from the sky.

And since, when that curious bird I behold
Arrayed in rich colors, and dusted with gold,
I cannot but think of the wrath and the spite
She has in reserve, though they’re now out of sight.

Ye two-footed, beautiful, passionate things,
If plumy or plumeless—­without, or with wings,
Beware, lest ye break, in some hazardous hour,
Your vials of wrath, hot, or bitter, or sour!

And would ye but know how at times ye do seem
Transformed to bright furies, or frights in a dream,
Go, stand at the glass—­to the painter go sit,
When anger is just at the height of its fit!

=The Butterfly’s Dream=

A tulip, just opened, had offered to hold
  A butterfly gaudy and gay;
And rocked in his cradle of crimson and gold,
  The careless young slumberer lay.

For the butterfly slept;—­as such thoughtless ones will,
  At ease, and reclining on flowers;—­
If ever they study, ’tis how they may kill
  The best of their mid-summer hours!

And the butterfly dreamed, as is often the case
  With indolent lovers of change,
Who, keeping the body at ease in its place,
  Give fancy permission to range.