The House of the Trees
& Other Poems

by Ethelwyn Wetherald


The Humming Bird

AGAINST my window-pane
     He plunges at a mass
Of buds—and strikes in vain
     The intervening glass.

O sprite of wings and fire


     Outstretching eagerly,
My soul with like desire
     To probe thy mystery,

Comes close as breast to bloom,
     As bud to hot heart-beat,


And gains no inner room,
     And drains no hidden sweet. [Page 25]