The Two Blackbirds
A blackbird in a wicker cage,
That hung and swung 'mid fruits and flowers,
Had learnt the song-charm, to assuage
The drearness of its wingless hours.
And ever when the song was heard,
From trees that shade the grassy plot
Warbled another glossy bird,
Whose mate not long ago was shot.
Strange anguish in that creature's breast,
Unwept like human grief, unsaid,
Has quickened in its lonely nest
A living impulse from the dead.
Not to console its own wild smart, -
But with a kindling instinct strong,
The novel feeling of its heart
Beats for the captive bird of song.
And when those mellow notes are still,
It hops from off its choral perch,
O'er path and sward, with busy bill,
All grateful gifts to peck and search.
Store of ouzel dainties choice
To those white swinging bars it brings;
And with a low consoling voice
It talks between its fluttering wings.
Deeply in their bitter grief
Those sufferers reciprocate,
The one sings for its woodland life,
The other for its murdered mate.
But deeper doth the secret prove,
Uniting those sad creatures so;
Humanity's great link of love,
The common sympathy of woe.
Well divined from day to day
Is the swift speech between them twain;
For when the bird is scared away,
The captive bursts to song again.
Yet daily with its flattering voice,
Talking amid its fluttering wings,
Store of ouzel dainties choice
With busy bill the poor bird brings.
And shall I say, till weak with age
Down from its drowsy branch it drops,
It will not leave that captive cage,
Nor cease those busy searching hops?
Ah, no! the moral will not strain;
Another sense will make it range,
Another mate will soothe its pain,
Another season work a change.
But thro' the live-long summer, tried,
A pure devotion we may see;
The ebb and flow of Nature's tide;
A self-forgetful sympathy.
poem by George Meredith
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Related quotes
Our Bird In Your Cage
we have this bird
we both own it and love it and care for it
our bird
and you have this cage
that you only own
golden, new and strong and as you say it
so reliable
that when our bird is in that cage
it will be safe
and cannot escape
we feed this bird together
and give it water and birdseeds
and a place of twigs and swing
where the bird can play
and perch upon
like it is on a tree
days and years
we keep this bird in your cage
and we see it is dying
and wanting to be free
yet you say, this sickness is just temporary
time heals what has wounded it
and shall forget the power of its wings
days and more years
we keep this bird in your cage
and i have not listened at all
to the sad song of that bird
her waning chirps
her weakened wings
her way of losing hold to the dreams of its wings
today we see this bird is dead
but you have no sadness at all
you say, you will buy another bird
again to be kept in your cage
i could have told you
i am the bird in your cage and i too have forgotten the power of
my wings
i could have told you, i have long died
and have forgotten what freedom is, what love is, what i am
in the first place. How can i ever tell you?
you are my cage.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Preparation
THE little bird sits in the nest and sings
A shy, soft song to the morning light;
And it flutters a little and prunes its wings.
The song is halting and poor and brief,
And the fluttering wings scarce stir a leaf;
But the note is a prelude to sweeter things,
And the busy bill and the flutter slight
Are proving the wings for a bolder flight!
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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The Voice
One feather is a bird,
I claim; one tree, a wood;
In her low voice I heard
More than a mortal should;
And so I stood apart,
Hidden in my own heart.
And yet I roamed out where
Those notes went, like the bird,
Whose thin song hung in air,
Diminished, yet still heard:
I lived with open sound,
Aloft, and on the ground.
That ghost was my own choice,
The shy cerulean bird;
It sang with her true voice,
And it was I who heard
A slight voice reply;
I heard; and only I.
Desire exults the ear:
Bird, girl, and ghostly tree,
The earth, the solid air--
Their slow song sang in me;
The long noon pulsed away,
Like any summer day.
poem by Theodore Roethke
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The Caged Thrush
Alas for the bird who was born to sing!
They have made him a cage; they have clipped his wing;
They have shut him up in a dingy street,
And they praise his singing and call it sweet.
But his heart and his song are saddened and filled
With the woods, and the nest he never will build,
And the wild young dawn coming into the tree,
And the mate that never his mate will be.
And day by day, when his notes are heard
They freshen the street--but alas for the bird
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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The Tame Bird Was In A Cage
THE tame bird was in a cage, the free bird was in the forest.
They met when the time came, it was a decree of fate.
The free bird cries, 'O my love, let us fly to the wood.'
The cage bird whispers, 'Come hither, let us both live in the cage.'
Says the free bird, 'Among bars, where is there room to spread one's wings?'
'Alas,' cries the caged bird, 'I should not know where to sit perched in the sky.'
The free bird cries, 'My darling, sing the songs of the woodlands.'
The cage bird sings, 'Sit by my side, I'll teach you the speech of the learned.'
The forest bird cries, 'No, ah no! songs can never be taught.'
The cage bird says, 'Alas for me, I know not the songs of the woodlands.'
There love is intense with longing, but they never can fly wing to wing.
Through the bars of the cage they look, and vain is their wish to know each other.
They flutter their wings in yearning, and sing, 'Come closer, my love!'
The free bird cries, 'It cannot be, I fear the closed doors of the cage.'
The cage bird whispers, 'Alas, my wings are powerless and dead.'
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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VI
The tame bird was in a cage, the free bird was in the forest.
They met when the time came, it was a decree of fate.
The free bird cries, "O my love, let us fly to wood."
The cage bird whispers, "Come hither, let us both live in the
cage."
Says the free bird, "Among bars, where is there room to spread
one's wings?"
"Alas," cries the cage bird, "I should not know where to sit
perched in the sky."
The free bird cries, "My darling, sing the songs of the
woodlands."
The cage bird says, "Sit by my side, I'll teach you the speech of
the learned."
The forest bird cries, "No, ah no! songs can never be taught."
The cage bird says, "Alas for me, I know not the songs of the
woodlands."
Their love is intense with longing, but they never can fly wing
to wing.
Through the bars of the cage they look, and vain is their wish to
know each other.
They flutter their wings in yearning, and sing, "Come closer, my
love!"
The free bird cries, "It cannot be, I fear the closed doors of
the cage."
The cage bird whispers, "Alas, my wings are powerless and dead."
poem by Rabindranath Tagore from The Gardener (1913)
Submitted by Silvia Velea
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Divine Bird
i would skp the best musical concert
to listen one more time to this morning bird
it makes me regret for not having been
a bird watcher and getting to know the name
of every bird and how every bird makes sure
they shine their best in voice rather than feathers
for feathers are just for a show of form but the
voice how well they have cultivated themselves
with the bountiful freedoms strewn below their wings
it was only two mornings ago, i first heard him
sing in among the many trees lining the boulevard
outside my condominium, the Crescent Court
the enchanting haunting notes of his song shocked
me into wondering whether it was really a bird that
sang those pristine notes, notes that seemed to have
streamed out of the sacred sanctum of God, so many
diverse notes, so well handled, they sounded
like a song written by the Divine for one special bird
one most holy entree to the dawn of a new day
i prayed to the Divine to allow me hear that bird
again, a bird that has sung his way into my my poem,
a bird probably from another realm where birds could
understand the workings of the heavens better than men
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Farewell Little Bird
Little bird,
why are you so lonely?
Did you not like your home
that I have prepared for you?
Look! it's made of gold!
Can't you see?
I have given you
the nicest place to live
because
you are so dear to me.
Little bird
please sing me a song,
the one
that I have heard from you
the day I saw you in the forest
before I made you mine.
Little bird,
why are you still lonely?
Is my heart for you
not enough?
Do you really want your life
back in the forest? ....
Little bird,
there you are!
now, spread your wings
I'm setting you free.....
Little bird,
I'd rather let you go
and see your happiness,
than keep you beside me
and see your loneliness.
Farewell little bird.
I wish
to hear your song again
......in the forest.
poem by Marites C. Cayetano
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Birdsong
The morning air suddenly comes alive,
With beautiful birdsong, in bursts of five.
Sometimes, there are bursts of seven or six,
To add a dash of variety, to the musical mix.
From other birds, there is no competition;
To sing the best, this bird is on a mission.
He sings his song loudly, and crystal clear;
Sat way up high in the tree, he feels no fear.
To his heart’s content, the little bird sings;
Joy, to nearby shoppers, his sweet song brings.
I hear the shrill trill of a nearby burglar alarm;
Compared to the bird’s trill, it holds no charm.
Hearing his call, really brightens up my day,
As I pass him by, and go steadily on my way.
Some people are too busy to notice his call;
Upon their deaf ears, his pretty voice falls.
In the natural world, there’s beauty to be found;
You need only to listen, and look all around.
If you just take your time; if you do not rush,
You will find beauty aplenty in the relative hush.
Listen to the birds singing, way up in the trees;
Their voices are carried upon the winter breeze.
By such sights and sounds, you will be thrilled;
With nature’s beauty, your senses will be filled.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Listen to The Song of Invisible Bird!
Listen to The Song of that invisible bird,
The Song of great singer several souls heard,
Sings sitting on tree of life, hidden under every leaf,
Its song go unheard by those pretend deaf,
Ever tuned to that great music,
Everytime it sings same song,
But with different lyrics and different words,
Autumn may come followed by spring,
Leaves may fall to make way to new,
Each leaf has that song, the bird flies under cover of green leaf,
When old yellow one fall,
Green leaves should learn from the fall of the old!
One can wait flowers to bloom,
Or can reap all fruits mature,
or remove immature buds or raw fruits,
The tree of life spread to several worlds,
One parallel to other,
Makes one world happy by another,
some may cross and intersect,
only to give or take life!
Come an sit near a flower,
Look at frog waiting for insects to come,
The invisible bird sings its song,
May it be heart of the flower,
It is flower for you,
source of nectar to insects,
place where frog gets its food!
It is cage for that bird ready to fly,
enters as nectar into insect,
and it enters frog as insects,
and moves along food chain,
It may be invisible to these eyes,
Yet it has its flight can be seen,
Look at your heart, the same bird sing,
Who knows when and where is its next flight?
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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Who Is that Sing in me!
All the time listen to that great singer,
The great song, great lyrics sung with great melody,
Someone sings in me and everyone,
' I am you and you are me,
Come and see, we are one! '
But how in this turbulent flow of life,
Is it true, everyone listen this?
Some say caged bird sings,
Some say it is song of soul,
Some say it has a song and it sings,
some try to listen it, some say, when I have my own song how can I listen it?
Fantastic song it is, it the song of the divine,
Song of a dreamer, song of the captain of life,
some listen to it and forget what they are,
Some listen to it and follow the singer,
Some only try to find,
who is the singer,
Only a few can see the singer,
Look at the singer, listen the song,
Where one will be when absorbed by that divine song,
The song that enchanted me
The song that enchant everyone,
It is the God that sings,
' Ah, come to me,
Oh my child, wakeup from dream,
In this dream you are playing,
You are thinking, that you play at things,
wakeup and see, it is I am that playing!
Your sorrows are mine,
My sorrows are yours,
your body is not that cage,
It is my own temple, where I am playing my
own game! '
'Where you want to go,
You are not caged anytime
You only restricted yourself
Building a cage, you yourself sat inside
Then closed the door of cage
And that is the foolishness separated us'
'Oh dear child open the door at least that of window
of heart!
You went on sail, setting your own map,
But lured by various destinations,
One better than another, lost the plan and map,
Wonder and wander
here and there for
millions of years,
But had you listened my eternal song,
That has all maps and information,
You would have been with me as per the schedule
Only your own fall to attraction,
You lost your bag and baggage,
Whenever you lost that, you acquired new one,
But none of the bag had no map,
This time you are with the right one,
Right map, Radio, T.V., intranet and internet,
Just turn to me tuning to my station
Switching to my protocol and IP address,
Click at the linK
You feel, all fall and pain,
you find medicine outside
your ego,
Just cleanse It with tears of love,
Just apply cream of faith, go to work with head phones on in your ears,
Go to work which bring peace! '
'Where you are always free,
Don't kill my spirit, only come and sing with me,
My eternal song, come with me,
Oh my child, I am you and you are me,
Let us be one and sing, we are one in love,
We are always were not different,
We make our voice strong and loud so that,
Captains of missing ships can listen us,
Be my relay station helping my song to reach all! '
This is that song,
that eternal song,
sung by Almighty
in every heart!
The heart is chorus,
Is that source
Where He built
His temple and not a
cage to keep singing bird
in captivity or exile!
I am that his son now realised
I am that foolish
ungrateful son
put that infinite
eternal well wisher,
Melodious singer
My own father
Behind the bars!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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The Selfsame Song
A bird sings the selfsame song,
With never a fault in its flow,
That we listened to here those long
Long years ago.
A pleasing marvel is how
A strain of such rapturous rote
Should have gone on thus till now
unchanged in a note!
--But its not the selfsame bird.--
No: perished to dust is he....
As also are those who heard
That song with me.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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The Flightless Bird
Slavery was the nature, caged within,
Seeing the sun rays penetrate it wonders,
Upon which strategy shall I escape this cage,
Upon which wisdom shall I,
See the sun and not the rays,
The bird with fluffy feathers did ponder,
Unto its master it cried,
Brought food but it seeked freedom,
To cage the bird was love he claimed,
To be caged, such love was hate it pondered,
Caged without hope, the flightless bird
Such freedom was vain for the bird,
That prison cell used to be a shelter,
To be loved, in a different way,
Engulfing itself in its loose wings,
Dreaming things it never saw,
Seeing life it never experienced,
Searching peace which it never had,
To rest in that moment of anguish,
The master said to cage is to love,
The bird cried to cage is to slave
My thoughts were painted all over,
Looking there, she might just cove over,
Feeling the passion when she came closer,
Will she ever set me free, in this cage I suffer
Unto to me is like a flightless bird,
Caged in vacuum I feel so bad,
To love me you ought to think instead,
To leave me you ought to think you had
The more the sky is seen,
The more the ray come unto my sight,
The more you hold the cage,
The more I desire a rescue,
Unto that day shall I wait,
To fly and see the sky and the sun
poem by Gaylord Munemo
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A Ballad of Dreamland
I hid my heart in a nest of roses,
Out of the sun's way, hidden apart;
In a softer bed than the soft white snow's is,
Under the roses I hid my heart.
Why would it sleep not? why should it start,
When never a leaf of the rose-tree stirred?
What made sleep flutter his wings and part?
Only the song of a secret bird.
Lie still, I said, for the wind's wing closes,
And mild leaves muffle the keen sun's dart;
Lie still, for the wind on the warm seas dozes,
And the wind is unquieter yet than thou art.
Does a thought in thee still as a thorn's wound smart?
Does the fang still fret thee of hope deferred?
What bids the lips of thy sleep dispart?
Only the song of a secret bird.
The green land's name that a charm encloses,
It never was writ in the traveller's chart,
And sweet on its trees as the fruit that grows is,
It never was sold in the merchant's mart.
The swallows of dreams through its dim fields dart,
And sleep's are the tunes in its tree-tops heard;
No hound's note wakens the wildwood hart,
Only the song of a secret bird.
ENVOI
In the world of dreams I have chosen my part,
To sleep for a season and hear no word
Of true love's truth or of light love's art,
Only the song of a secret bird.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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I Was Sick And In Prison
Thou hast not left the rough-barked tree to grow
Without a mate upon the river's bank;
Nor dost Thou on one flower the rain bestow,
But many a cup the glittering drops has drank;
The bird must sing to one who sings again,
Else would her note less welcome be to hear;
Nor hast Thou bid thy word descend in vain,
But soon some answering voice shall reach my ear;
Then shall the brotherhood of peace begin,
And the new song be raised that never dies,
That shall the soul from death and darkness win,
And burst the prison where the captive lies;
And one by one new-born shall join the strain,
Till earth restores her sons to heaven again.
poem by Jones Very
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Evensong
It is late, on a cold, dark, wintry afternoon;
Up high in a tree, a small bird merrily croons.
Trade in the town, has now begun to wind down,
And taking centre stage, is the bird’s sweet sound.
Like an operatic singer, his voice soars high,
And his song delights many, as they pass by.
Your ears can not help, but hear his loud call,
As the sun, once again, sets and darkness falls.
He sings for joy, at the very top of his voice;
To listen to his song, you have little choice.
He sits at the very top of the tallest tree,
Singing so loudly; his heart full of glee.
His plaintive call pierces the cool air,
As he sings his song, without a care.
A pure quality, his sweet song holds,
And he sings it out, so bright and bold.
His singsong attracts many a nice comment;
His performance appears to be Heaven sent.
Of his captivated audience, he is unaware;
His song boasts beauty, beyond compare.
Like a church choir, as they sing evensong,
This small bird sings so very keen and strong.
Through the dark streets, home, I wearily wind;
Sad to be leaving the bird’s sweet song behind.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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A Summer Morn
Season of mist and mellow fruit,
Of blossom and scented air.
Bird song and busy bee,
seem to inhabit everywhere
Grass green horizon,
velvet blue morning sky.
A little bird with a sweet song,
is singing on wing high in the sky.
Dew laden petals sparkle,
under the new day’s sun.
While somewhere in the distance,
children are laughing and having fun.
3 Nov 1978
poem by David Harris
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The Gift
A poor orphan girl named maria
Was walking to market one day
She stopped for a rest by the roadside
Where a bird with a broken wing lay
A few moments passed till she saw it
For its feathers were covered with sand
But soon clean and wrapped it was travelling
In the warmth of marias small hand
She happily gave her last peso
On a cage made of rushes and twine
She fed it loose corn from the market
And watched it grow stronger with time
Now the christmas eve service was coming
And the church shone with tinsel and light
And all of the townfolks brought presents
To lay by the manger that night
There were diamonds and incense
And perfumes
In packages fit for a king
But for one ragged bird in a small cage
Maria had nothing to bring
She waited till just before midnight
So no one would see her go in
And crying she knelt by the manger
For her gift was unworthy of him
Then a voice spoke to her through the darkness
Maria, what brings you to me
If the bird in the cage is your offering
Open the door and let me see
Though she trembled, she did as he asked her
And out of the cage the bird flew
Soaring up into the rafters
On a wing that had healed good as new
Just then the midnight bells rang out
And the little bird started to sing
A song that no words could recapture
Whose beauty was fit for a king
Now maria felt blessed just to listen
To that cascade of notes sweet and long
As her offerings was lifted to heaven
By the very first nightingales song
song performed by by Garth Brooks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bird in a Cage
How much I feel for the poor things
Unable to fly or spread their wings,
Each day with the same view
Sad and lonely nothing to do.
To the bird the world is that room
Confined to the cage, that's his tomb.
For life without freedom is nothing at all
No matter whether you're big or small.
Longing to fly on the breeze
Soaring high over the trees
Seeing new places every day
Flying and twirling in glorious play.
Never knowing freedom of the bird that fly's
Sitting on his perch ‘till he dies.
How can a bird that's born for joy
Sit in a cage and sing, like a stuffed toy.
© Hazel 2012
poem by Hazel Connelly
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A Poetry For Loneliness...
when you are lonely
you are lonely
both inside and outside
by your own psychological expertise
you may not show it
and they do not notice it
they are busy too
with anything to conceal their own
and play games with you
late at night
you continue the guessing game
those tricks
and treats
and indeed you are all lonely
and you drink the wine to put some redness on your face and
skin
to lessen the impact of that trembling
but no one talks about it
no one dares
for fear that talking about it makes the pain worse
you cannot hold it you want to release that bird
caged
that loneliness that sings inside your heart
and you set it free
and it flies in the air and above the mountains and hovers
from one tree to another
and then at night
it comes back to you
you are the cage and the home combined
and they see the bird and hear its song
it is so sweet and so beautiful
and they want to describe it to you
but there is just no word
for it
and precisely the hiding game continues
routine loneliness
common songs of mankind
unspoken.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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