212 
BIBDS IN A VILLAGE. 
Cages of agony, rows on rows, 
Torture that only a wild thing knows : 
Is it nothing to you to see 
Tiiat head thrust out through the hopeless wire. 
And the tiny life, and the mad desire 
To be free, to be free, to be free ? 
Oh, the sky, the sky, the blue wide sky, 
For the beat of a song-bird's wings ! 
Great sad eyes with a frightened stare. 
Look through the 'wildering darkness there, 
The surge, the crowd, and the cry ; 
Fluttering wild wicgs, beat and bleed. 
And it will not peck at the golden seed. 
And the water is almost dry : 
Straight and close are the cramping bars 
From the dawn of mist to the chill of stars. 
And yet it must sing or die ! 
"Will its marred harsh voice in the city street 
Make any heart of you glad ? 
It will only beat with its wings and beat, 
It will only sing you mad. 
" Better to lie like this one dead, 
RuflSed ijlumage of breast and head, 
Toor little feathers for ever furled. 
Only a song gone out of the world ! 
• •••••« 
If it does not go to your heart to see 
The helpless pity of those bruised wings, 
The tireless effort to which it clings 
To the strain and the will to be free, 
I know not how I shall set in words 
The meaning of God in this, 
For the loveliest thing in this world of His 
Are the ways and the songs of birds. 
But the sky, the sky, the wide free sky, 
For the home of the song-bird's heart ! " 
How falsely does that man see nature, how 
