High at the window in her cage, The old canary sits and sings, Nor
sees across the curtain pass The shadow of a swallow’s wings. A poor
deceit and copy this Of larger lives that count their span,
Unreckoning of wider worlds, Or gifts that Heaven keeps for man! She
gathers piteous bits and shreds, This solitary mateless thing, Patient
to build again the nest So rudely scattered spring by spring; And
sings her brief, unheeded songs, Her dreams of bird-life wild and
free, Yet never beats her prison bars At sound of song from bush or
tree. Yet in my busiest hours I pause, Held by a sense of urgent
speech, Bewildered by that spark-like soul Able my very soul to reach.
She will be heard; she chirps me loud When I forget those gravest
cares, Her small provision to supply— Clear water or the
seedsman’s wares. She begs me now for that chief joy The round great
world is made to grow— Her wisp of greenness. Hear her chide Because
my answering thought is slow! What can my life seem like to her? A
dull, unpunctual service mine, Stupid before her eager speech, Her
flitting steps, her insight fine! To open wide thy prison door, Poor
friend, would give thee to thy foes; And yet a plaintive note I hear,
As if to tell how slowly goes The time of thy long prisoning. Bird!
does some promise keep thee sane? Will there be better days for thee?
Will thy soul too know life again? Ah, none of us have more than
this— If one true friend green leaves can reach From out some
fairer, wider place, And understand our wistful speech! - Sarah Orne
Jewett