Helen Gray Cone

A Nest in a Lyre

  As sign before a playhouse serves
    A giant Lyre, ornately gilded,
  On whose convenient coignes and curves
    The pert brown sparrows late have builded.
  They flit, and flirt, and prune their wings,
    Not awed at all by golden glitter,
  And make among the silent strings
    Their satisfied ephemeral twitter.

  Ah, somewhat so we perch and flit,
    And spy some crumb and dash to win it,
  And with a witty chirping twit
    Our sheltering Time—there's nothing in it!
  In Life's large frame, a glorious Lyre's,
    We nest, content, our season flighty,
  Nor guess we brush the powerful wires
    Might witch the stars with music mighty.