A CERTAIN joy unto my window-sill
Came singing through the morning yesterday.
I scarce dared smile, so still I sat, so still —
Yet did it fly away.

There, when my red-cheeked neighbour opposite
Had spread — ah! craftily — her rose-hid snare,
So still I sat, I heard her loud delight,
What time she trapped it there.

The night comes on — I ponder many things —
Ah! better far that joy should fly away
Than hold it thus with bruised and broken wings,
And, crippled, bid it stay.