Under the quince-tree’s shade, away
From garden-paths—half-green, half-grey—
The bird-bath stands, and dipping in it
Sparrow and blackbird, thrush and linnet,
So fierce they flutter wide and far
Scattered the silver splashes are;
You’d hardly think there left could be
One single drop of little me.
And yet when every bird that will
Has dipped and splashed and drunk his fill,
Never I go, with either hand
To hold the bowl and tip-toe stand
And peep, but there with leaves and sky
All mixed—there always still am I.
[Illustration: _The bird-bath._]