THE STUFFED BIRD.
291
And these glad wings all quickened and eager for flight
Would flash through the window and soar out of sight.
I think not a sigh from my dearie or me
Would wish back the captive that life had set free.
Would flash through the window and soar out of sight.
I think not a sigh from my dearie or me
Would wish back the captive that life had set free.
'T is the absence of life where life has once stirred
That makes this poor bird so unlike a bird
That even its splendor, a weariness grown,
Enchants us no longer with charms of its own.
So lifeless it is that one must needs strive
To so much as believe it was ever alive.
That makes this poor bird so unlike a bird
That even its splendor, a weariness grown,
Enchants us no longer with charms of its own.
So lifeless it is that one must needs strive
To so much as believe it was ever alive.
Ah, see what a contrast!—look, dearie, and see
That little brown bird in the evergreen tree,
With no beauty to beast of, and one little note
Like a musical throb in its live little throat!
Incessant it flits through the branches, and now
Darts outward and up to the loftiest bough
In the joy of mere being to carol and swing!
Why, that is a creature, but this is a thing!
That little brown bird in the evergreen tree,
With no beauty to beast of, and one little note
Like a musical throb in its live little throat!
Incessant it flits through the branches, and now
Darts outward and up to the loftiest bough
In the joy of mere being to carol and swing!
Why, that is a creature, but this is a thing!
