Poetry Archives

Where I can see him all day long
And hear his wild, spontaneous song,
  Before my window in his cage,
    A blithe canary sits and swings,
    And circles round on golden wings;
  And startles all the vicinage
    When from his china tankard
      He takes a dainty drink
        To clear his throat
        For as sweet a note
    As ever yet was caroled
      By lark or bobolink.

Sometimes he drops his pretty head
And seems to be dispirited,
  And then his little mistress says:
    “Poor Dickie misses his chickweed,
    Or else I’ve fed him musty seed
  As stale as last year’s oranges!”
    But all the time I wonder
      If we half comprehend
        In sweet song-words
        The thought of birds,
    Or why so oft their raptures
      In sudden silence end.

They do not pine for forest wilds
Within the “blue Canary isles,”
  As exiles from their native home,
    For in a foreign domicile
    They first essayed their gamut-trill
  Beneath a cage’s gilded dome;
    But maybe some sad throbbing
      Betimes their spirits stirs,
        Who love as we
        Dear liberty,
    That they, admired and petted,
      Are only—prisoners.