Fair insect! You, with thread-like legs outspead,
And blood-extracting bill and filmy wing,
Do murmur, as you slowly sail about,
In pitiless ears full of many a pointless thing,
And tell how little our large veins should bleed,
Would we but yield them to your bitter need.
Unwillingly, I swat, and, what is worse,
Angrily, Men listen to your plea,
You get many a brush, and many a curse,
For saying you are thin, and starved, and faint:
Even the old beggar, while he asks for food,
Would kill you, hapless Mosquito, if he could.
I call you Mosquito, for my kind, I bleed.
We do not have the honor of so proud a birth;
You come from rain-wetted meadows, fresh and green,
The offspring of the Gods, though born on Earth;
For Plague was your Son, and fair was she,
The tropic Nymph, that nursed your infancy.
Beneath the Waters your cradle was swung,
And when, at length, your glassy wings grew strong,
High into to gentle airs their folds were flung,
Rose in the sky and bore you along soft;
The Southwind breathed to waft you on your way,
And danced and shone beneath the Billowing Bay.
Calm rose afar the steely City Towers, and then
Came the deep murmur of its crowd of men,
And as its grateful odors met your sense,
They seemed the perfumes of your Native Land.
Fair lay its crowded streets, and at the sight
Your tiny song grew shriller with delight.
At length your needles flutter in Chicago and L.A.;
Ah, they are fairy steps, and white necks kissed
By needless airs, and eyes whose killing ray
Shines through the snowy veils like stars through mist;
And fresh as morning, on many a cheek and chin,
Blooms the bright blood through the transparent skin.
Sure these are sights to touch a Parasite!
What! Do I hear your slender voice complain?
You wail when I talk of beauty's light,
As if it brought the memory of pain:
You are a wayward species, Mosquito: well, come near,
And pour your tale of sorrow in my ear.