Читать книгу Mother's Dream and Other Poems - Gould Hannah Flagg - Страница 4

I caught a bird: She flitted by,

So near my window lifted high,

She softly ventured in, to spy

What I might be about:

And then, a little wildered thing,

Like many a one without a wing,

She fluttered, struck, and seemed to sing,

“Alas! I can’t get out.”

She saw her kindred on the tree

Before her, sporting light and free;

But felt a power, she could not see,

Repel and hold her back.

In vain her beak, and breast, and feet

Against the crystal pane were beat:

She could not break the clear deceit,

Nor find her airy track.

The pretty wanderer then I took;

And felt her frame with terror shook:

She gave the sad and piteous look

Of helplessness and fear;

Till quick I spread my hand, to show,

I caught her but to let her go;

And I, perhaps, may never know

A dearer moment here.

She piped a short and sweet adieu,

As, humming on the air, she threw

Her brilliant, buoyant wing, and flew

Away from fear and me:

But, ere the hour of setting sun,

That little constant, grateful one,

Returning, had her hymn begun

In our old rustling tree.

Now do not take the fatal aim,

My tender bird to kill, or maim;

Nor let the fatal shot proclaim

Her anguish, or her fall!

But, would you know the bird I mean,

She is the first that will be seen —

The last – and every one between:

She represents them all!