Classic Poem

I

Little plaintive, singing bird,
You who never, never, heard
The songs that breathe of Freedom's joy,
And happiness without alloy,
Captive in a gilded home
You may never, never, roam
Without its prison-bars so fair,
You may never drink the air,
Balmy with the scents of flowers,
Dewy with the breaths of showers:
You may only sing, and sing,
But not upon the soaring wing
Are you happy little friend?
Know you peace that has no end?
Then why is it when you sing
Your throbbing trill too quickly bring
The burning tears and sobbing sighs,
That all unbidden swiftly rise,
Sadly rise,
And overflow we know not why?

II

Tell me, does your little heart
Beating in this world apart
Long for woods of dancing green,
Woods that you have never seen?
Does it long for friends and love
Mid the feathered flocks that rove
Gayly from sweet clime to clime
Knowing nought of grief or time?
Do those wings so frail and soft
Long to soar on clouds aloft,
Cleaving with glad whirrs the air,
Darting here and darting there?
Is that why your perfect song
Brings a host and growing throng
Of sad thoughts so grave and deep,
That we can do naught but weep?
Is that how your little heart
Bears the aching, stinging, smart
Of its yearning, longing pain?
Do you guess that it is vain
All in vain,
Little plaintive, singing, bird?