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