The Titmouse

You shall not be overbold

When you deal with arctic cold,

As late I found my lukewarm blood

Chilled wading in the snow-choked wood.

How should I fight? my foeman fine

Has million arms to one of mine:

East, west, for aid I looked in vain,

East, west, north, south, are his domain.

Miles off, three dangerous miles, is home;

Must borrow his winds who there would come.

Up and away for life! be fleet!—

The frost-king ties my fumbling feet,

Sings in my ears, my hands are stones,

Curdles the blood to the marble bones,

Tugs at the heart-strings, numbs the sense,

And hems in life with narrowing fence.

Well, in this broad bed lie and sleep,—

The punctual stars will vigil keep,—

Embalmed by purifying cold;

The winds shall sing their dead-march old,

The snow is no ignoble shroud,

The moon thy mourner, and the cloud.

Softly,—but this way fate was pointing,

'Twas coming fast to such anointing,

When piped a tiny voice hard by,

Gay and polite, a cheerful cry,

Chic-chicadeedee!  saucy note

Out of sound heart and merry throat,

As if it said, "Good day, good sir!

Fine afternoon, old passenger!

Happy to meet you in these places,

Where January brings few faces."

This poet, though he live apart,

Moved by his hospitable heart,

Sped, when I passed his sylvan fort,

To do the honors of his court,

As fits a feathered lord of land;

Flew near, with soft wing grazed my hand,

Hopped on the bough, then, darting low,

Prints his small impress on the snow,

Shows feats of his gymnastic play,

Head downward, clinging to the spray.

Here was this atom in full breath,

Hurling defiance at vast death;

This scrap of valor just for play

Fronts the north-wind in waistcoat gray,

As if to shame my weak behavior;

I greeted loud my little savior,

"You pet! what dost here? and what for?

In these woods, thy small Labrador,

At this pinch, wee San Salvador!

What fire burns in that little chest

So frolic, stout and self-possest?

Henceforth I wear no stripe but thine;

Ashes and jet all hues outshine.

Why are not diamonds black and gray,

To ape thy dare-devil array?

And I affirm, the spacious North

Exists to draw thy virtue forth.

I think no virtue goes with size;

The reason of all cowardice

Is, that men are overgrown,

And, to be valiant, must come down

To the titmouse dimension."

'Tis good will makes intelligence,

And I began to catch the sense

Of my bird's song: "Live out of doors

In the great woods, on prairie floors.

I dine in the sun; when he sinks in the sea,

I too have a hole in a hollow tree;

And I like less when Summer beats

With stifling beams on these retreats,

Than noontide twilights which snow makes

With tempest of the blinding flakes.

For well the soul, if stout within,

Can arm impregnably the skin;

And polar frost my frame defied,

Made of the air that blows outside."

With glad remembrance of my debt,

I homeward turn; farewell, my pet!

When here again thy pilgrim comes,

He shall bring store of seeds and crumbs.

Doubt not, so long as earth has bread,

Thou first and foremost shalt be fed;

The Providence that is most large

Takes hearts like thine in special charge,

Helps who for their own need are strong,

And the sky dotes on cheerful song.

Henceforth I prize thy wiry chant

O'er all that mass and minster vaunt;

For men mis-hear thy call in Spring,

As't would accost some frivolous wing,

Crying out of the hazel copse, Phe-be! 

And, in winter, Chic-a-dee-dee! 

I think old Cæsar must have heard

In northern Gaul my dauntless bird,

And, echoed in some frosty wold,

Borrowed thy battle-numbers bold.

And I will write our annals new,

And thank thee for a better clew,

I, who dreamed not when I came here

To find the antidote of fear,

Now hear thee say in Roman key,

Pæan! Veni, vidi, vici.