Sympathy

I know what the caged bird feels.
Ah me, when the sun is bright on
the upland slopes, when the wind blows
soft through the springing grass and
the river floats like a sheet of glass,
when the first bird sings and the first bud ops,
and the faint perfume from its chalice steals.

I know what the caged bird feels.

I know why the caged bird beats his wing
till its blood is red on the cruel bars,
for he must fly back to his perch and
cling when he fain would be on the bow aswing.
And the blood still throbs in the old, old scars
and they pulse again with a keener sting.

I know why he beats his wing.

I know why the caged bird sings.

Ah, me, when its wings are bruised and its bosom sore.
It beats its bars and would be free.
It's not a carol of joy or glee, but a prayer
that it sends from its heart's deep core,
a plea that upward to heaven it flings.

I know why the caged bird sings.

Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906)