Classic Poem

Poor prisoned bird, that sings and sings,
Unconscious of the gift of wings;
Or, knowing it, content to be
Shorn of its birthright liberty!

Like souls — a sadder thrall who bear,
Or wittingly or unaware —
Consenting to their prison bars,
When, haply, they might pierce the stars.

Oh, I would rather be the clod
That knows not, cannot know, of God,
Than thus, in sluggish wise, deny
My title to his open sky!

He gave us wings; He must have meant,
Thereby, a noble discontent
To teach us, that we might essay
To break each bond and soar away.

What is the cage which shuts us in,
But our own sloth? but our own sin?
All outward limitations are
But cobwebs to such bolt and bar.

For me, no idle lance I tilt
Against my lot: mine all the guilt;
I am my own most bitter foe —
Ah, this it is which irks me so!

If from myself I could set free
Myself! At odds I still must be
Till my victorious wings shall rise,
Unclogged, and sweep the farthest skies.