The Tomtit

Twilight had fall’n, austere and grey—
The darkening ashes of a dying day—
When, lo, tip-tap at window-pane,
My visitor had come again,
To peck late supper at his ease,
A morsel of suspended cheese.
What ancient code, what Morse was his—
Minutest of small mysteries,
That, as I watched, from lamp-lit room,
Should peering from the Unconscious come
My hidden spirit, and fill me then
With love, delight, grief, pining, pain?
Scarce less than had he angel been,
And cognisant, alas, cold heart—
Of all that volume will impart
Which record keeps for Judgment Day!
Suppose, such countenance as that,
In human, deathless, delicate,
Had gazed that winter moment in—
Eyes of an ardour and beauty no
Star, no Sirius could show!
Well, it were best for such as I
To shun direct divinity;
Yet not stay heedless when I heard
The tip-tap nothings of that tiny bird.