Within my garden rides a bird
Upon a single wheel,
Whose spokes a dizzy music make
As ‘t were a traveling mill.
He never stops, but slackens
Above the ripest rose,
Partakes without alighting,
And praises as he goes;
Till every spice is tasted,
And then his fairy gig
Reels in remoter atmospheres,
And I rejoin my dog.
And he and I perplex us
If positive ‘t were we—
Or bore the garden in the brain
This curiosity?
But he, the best logician,
Refers my duller eye
To just vibrating blossoms—
An exquisite reply!
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