A LITTLE BIRD.
In his cage my blithe canary, swinging,
Trills with merry voice a roundelay;
From the early sunrise he is singing,
Chirping, flying, flitting all the day.
They who call it cruel thus to hold him
Never saw his joyous, twinkling eyes,
Never heard the something that I told him
Once, beneath delusive April skies:
When my hand drew back the sliding casement,