The Common Question

Behind us at our evening meal The gray bird ate his fill, Swung downward by a single claw, And wiped his hooked bill. He shook his wings and crimson tail, And set his head aslant, And, in his sharp, impatient way, Asked, 'What does Charlie want?' 'Fie, silly bird!' I answered, 'tuck Your head beneath your wing, And go to sleep;'--but o'er and o'er He asked the self-same thing. Then, smiling, to myself I said How like are men and birds! We all are saying what he says, In action or in words. The boy with whip and top and drum, The girl with hoop and doll, And men with lands and houses, ask The question of Poor Poll. However full, with something more We fain the bag would cram; We sigh above our crowded nets For fish that never swam. No bounty of indulgent Heaven The vague desire can stay; Self-love is still a Tartar mill For grinding prayers alway. The dear God hears and pities all; He knoweth all our wants; And what we blindly ask of Him His love withholds or grants. And so I sometimes think our prayers Might well be merged in one; And nest and perch and hearth and church Repeat, 'Thy will be done.'