Classic Poem

The cage hangs at the window,
There's the sunshine on the sill;
But where the form and where the voice
That never till now were still?

The sweet voice hath departed
From its feathery home of gold,
The little form of yellow dust
Lies motionless and cold!

Oh, where amid the azure
Hath thy sweet spirit fled?
I hold my breath and think I hear
Its music overhead.

Death has not hushed thy spirit,
Its joy shall vanish never;
The slightest thrill of pleasure born
Lives on and lives for ever!

Throughout the gloomy winter
Thy soul shed joy in ours,
As it told us of the summer-time
Amid the land of flowers.

But now thy songs are silent,
Except what memory brings;
For thou hast folded death within
The glory of thy wings!

And here thy resting-place shall be
Beneath the garden bower;
A bush shall be thy monument,
Thy epitaph a flower!