Classic Poem

Little bird of the bruisèd wing,
Swept to the shelter of my door,
Torn is thy nest in the willow swing.
Hast thou forgotten how to sing?
Shall thy flash be seen in the green no more?

Come, let me bind up the bruisèd wing.
At my open cage-door linger long.
And if for a while near the willow swing
There be one bird less, there 'll be no less song:
Thy sorrow shall teach me how to sing.