A little grey bird on a drooping vine, A cool green leaf or two, And a cluster of purple grapes, whose us Let sunshine mistily through; No more—and a drooping tendril curled Astray—on a golden sky; But where's the magic? What charm's in this To hold the unwearied eye?
As if alighted a moment since Clings the bird to his spray, Hardly, against the sky of gold, Its curve has ceased to sway.
A moment hence, and the bird must fly And the bright glimpse change! But Foliage, fruit and bird were thus Spellbound an age ago.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.