The Common Question

BEHIND us at our evening meal

The gray bird ate his fill,

Swung downward by a single claw,

And wiped his hookëd bill.

He shook his wings and crimson tail,

And set his head aslant,

And, in his sharp, impatient way,

Asked, “What does Charlie want?”

“Fie, silly bird!” I answered, “tuck

Your head beneath your wing,

And go to sleep;”—but o’er and o’er

He asked the self-same thing.

Then, smiling, to myself I said:

How like are men and birds!

We all are saying what he says,

In action or in words.

The boy with whip and top and drum,

The girl with hoop and doll,

And men with lands and houses, ask

The question of Poor Poll.

However full, with something more

We fain the bag would cram;

We sigh above our crowded nets

For fish that never swam.

No bounty of indulgent Heaven

The vague desire can stay;

Self-love is still a Tartar mill

For grinding prayers alway.

The dear God hears and pities all;

He knoweth all our wants;

And what we blindly ask of Him

His love withholds or grants.

And so I sometimes think our prayers

Might well be merged in one;

And nest and perch and hearth and church

Repeat, “Thy will be done.”

1866.