08.07.2007, 10:16
The Thrush
Loud from its wicker cage the thrush yet sings;
The blackbird pipes, though now it may no more
Flit through the orchard as it did before;
In spite of bars, the lark its carollings
Still pours, and stretches still its useless wings
As when it could at will to heaven soar.
In sooth, though it should be a dungeon floor,
The place is nought. If God has touched the strings,
The music of his soul in melodies
E'en there the wretched captive will outpour;
Will even there to dull insensate things
Attune his harp, as Orpheus oft of yore,
So poets tell, in his sad wanderings
Played to the rocks and hills and brooks and trees.
Loud from its wicker cage the thrush yet sings;
The blackbird pipes, though now it may no more
Flit through the orchard as it did before;
In spite of bars, the lark its carollings
Still pours, and stretches still its useless wings
As when it could at will to heaven soar.
In sooth, though it should be a dungeon floor,
The place is nought. If God has touched the strings,
The music of his soul in melodies
E'en there the wretched captive will outpour;
Will even there to dull insensate things
Attune his harp, as Orpheus oft of yore,
So poets tell, in his sad wanderings
Played to the rocks and hills and brooks and trees.