I know what the caged bird feels, alas! When the sun is bright on the upland slopes; When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass, And the river flows like a stream of glass; When the first bird sings and the first bud opes, And the faint perfume from its chalice steals -- I know what the caged bird feels!
I know why the caged bird beats his wing Till its blood is red on the cruel bars; For he must fly back to his perch and cling When he fain would be on the bough a-swing; And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars And they pulse again with a keener sting -- I know why he beats his wing!
I know why the caged bird sings, ah me, When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore, -- When he beats his bars and he would be free; It is not a carol of joy or glee, But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core, But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings -- I know why the caged bird sings!
Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice.
"Thou art a fool," said my head to my heart, "Indeed, the greatest of fools thou art, To be led astray by the trick of a tress, By a smiling face or a ribbon smart;" And my heart was in sore distress. Then Phyllis came by, and her face was fair, The light gleamed soft on her raven hair; And her lips were blooming a rosy red. Then my heart spoke out with a right bold air: "Thou art worse than a fool, O head!"
There was a little girl, Who had a little curl, Right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good, She was very good indeed, But when she was bad she was horrid.
They have watered the street, It shines in the glare of lamps, Cold, white lamps, And lies Like a slow-moving river, Barred with silver and black. Cabs go down it, One, And then another. Between them I hear the shuffling of feet. Tramps doze on the window-ledges, Night-walkers pass along the sidewalks. The city is squalid and sinister, With the silver-barred street in the midst, Slow-moving, A river leading nowhere.
Opposite my window, The moon cuts, Clear and round, Through the plum-colored night. She cannot light the city; It is too bright. It has white lamps, And glitters coldly.
I stand in the window and watch the moon. She is thin and lustreless, But I love her. I know the moon, And this is an alien city.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 