While I Watch The Christmas Blaze Paint The Room With Ruddy Rays, Something Makes My Vision Glide To The Frosty Scene Outside. There, To Reach A Rotting Berry, Toils A Thrush, - Constrained To Very Dregs Of Food By Sharp Distress, Taking Such With Thankfulness. Why, O Starving Bird, When I One Day'S Joy Would Justify, And Put Misery Out Of View, Do You Make Me Notice You!