The Sparrow Poem by Arthur Christopher Benson

O pertest, most self-satisfied
Of aught that breathes or moves,
See where you sit, with head aside,
To chirp your vulgar loves:
Or raking in the uncleanly street
You bolt your ugly meal,
Undaunted by the approaching feet,
The heedless splashing wheel.

Old poets in your praise were stirred --
I fear you must forget --
Catullus loved you, shameless bird,
You were his lady's pet.
You heard her dainty breathing, perched
Beside her when she slept;
You died: -- her pretty cheeks were smirched; --
And 'twas for you she wept.

The imperious Bustard strides no more
Across the grassy waste;
The gallant Ruff deserts the shore
He trampled into paste;
The Oriole falls, a flaming sprite,
Before the unsparing gun;
Whilst thou by some diviner right
Dost wanton in the sun.

When prey is scarce, when tempests fret
And freeze the stiffening loam,
The worm has tunnelled deeper yet,
The beetle sits at home,
You shake your chilly limbs, and puff
Your crest in mild surprise,
And peep, a ball of downy fluff,
With bright and beaded eyes.

No secret raptures thrill your throat
On fragrant moonlit nights;
You never had the mind to note
Indignities or slights;
The soul that craves, but rarely finds
The vague, the high, the true,
The weaknesses of noble minds, --
They never troubled you.

Your selfish purpose never swerves
From its appointed end;
Your sturdy bonhomie deserves
Success, but ne'er a friend.
Where sweetness languishes, and grace,
You multiply and thrive; --
It proves you, of the feathered race,
The fittest to survive.

Contentment and equality
Are pleasing names enough;
But we prefer, we know not why,
A more ethereal stuff.
Ignoble welfare, -- doubtful good --
We see with clouded eyes;
We did not make the world, -- yet would
To God 'twere otherwise!