Crumbs

p to my frozen window-shelf

Each day a begging birdie comes,

And when I have a crust myself

The birdie always gets the crumbs.

They say who on the water throws
His bread, will get it back again;
If that is true, perhaps—who knows?—
I have not cast my crumbs in vain.

Indeed, I know it is not quite

The thing to boast of one’s good deed;

To what the left hand does, the right,

I am aware, should pay no heed.

Yet if in modest verse I tell
My tale, some editor, maybe,
May like it very much, and—well,
My bread will then return to me.