A Caged Mocking-Bird
I pass a cobbler’s shop along the streetAnd pause a moment at the door-step, where,In nature’s medley, piping cool and sweet,The songs that thrill the swamps when spring is near,Fly o’er the fields at fullness of the year,And twitter where the autumn hedges run,Join all the months of music into one.
I shut my eyes: the shy wood-thrush is there,And all the leaves hang still to catch his spell;Wrens cheep among the bushes; from somewhereA bluebird’s tweedle passes o’er the fell;From rustling corn bob-white his name doth tell;And when the oriole sets his full heart freeBarefooted boyhood comes again to me.
The vision-bringer hangs upon a nailBefore a dusty window, looking dimOn marts where trade goes hot with box and bale;The sad-eyed passers have no time for him.His captor sits, with beaded face and grim,Plying a listless awl, as in a dreamOf pastures winding by a shady stream.
Gray bird, what spirit bides with thee unseen?For now, when every songster finds his loveAnd makes his nest where woods are deep and green,Free as the winds, thy song should mock the dove.If I were thou, my grief in moans should moveAt thinking—otherwhere, by others’ artCharmed and forgetful—of mine own sweetheart.
But I, who weep when fortune seems unkindTo prison me within a space of walls,When far-off grottoes hold my loves enshrinedAnd every love is cruel when it calls;Who sulk for hills and fern-fledged waterfalls,—I blush to offer sorrow unto thee,Master of fate, scorner of destiny!