Explore "Crumbs" by Oliver Herford on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Up to my frozen window-shelf / Each day a begging birdie comes, / And when I have a crust myself / The birdie always gets the crumbs.
They say who on the water throws / His bread, will get it back again; / If that is true, perhaps -- who knows? -- / I have not cast my crumbs in vain.
Indeed, I know it is not quite / The thing to boast of one's good deed; / To what the left hand does, the right, / I am aware, should pay no heed.
Yet if in modest verse I tell / My tale, some editor, maybe, / May like it very much, and -- well, / My bread will then return to me.