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F you would happy company win, Dangle a palm-nut from a tree, Idly in green to sway and spin, Its snow-pulped kernel for bait; and see, A nimble titmouse enter in.

Out of earth's vast unknown of air, Out of all summer, from wave to wave, He'll perch, and prank his feathers fair, Jangle a glass-clear wildering stave, And take his commons there—

This tiny son of life; this spright. By momentary Human sought, Plume will his wing in the dappling light, Clash timbrel shrill and gay— And into time's enormous nought, Sweet-fed, will flit away.