Feda with Other Poems Chiefly Lyrical. By Rennell Rodd ... With an Etching by Harper Pennington |
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THE SKYLARKS. |
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 | Feda with Other Poems |  |
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THE SKYLARKS.
Oh the sky, the sky, the open sky
For the home of a song-bird's heart!
And why, why, and forever why,
Do they stifle here in the mart:
Cages of agony, rows on rows,
Torture that only a wild thing knows:
Is it nothing to you to see
That head thrust out through the hopeless wire,
And the tiny life, and the mad desire
To be free, to be free, to be free?
Oh the sky, the sky, the blue wide sky
For the beat of a song-bird's wings!
And why, why and forever why,
Is the only song it sings.
For the home of a song-bird's heart!
And why, why, and forever why,
Do they stifle here in the mart:
Cages of agony, rows on rows,
Torture that only a wild thing knows:
Is it nothing to you to see
That head thrust out through the hopeless wire,
And the tiny life, and the mad desire
To be free, to be free, to be free?
Oh the sky, the sky, the blue wide sky
For the beat of a song-bird's wings!
And why, why and forever why,
Is the only song it sings.
Great sad eyes with a frightened stare,
Look through the 'wildering darkness there,
The surge, the crowd, and the cry;
Fluttering wild wings beat and bleed,
And it will not peck at the golden seed,
And the water is almost dry:
Straight and close are the cramping bars
From the dawn of mist to the chill of stars,
And yet it must sing or die!
Will its marred harsh voice in the city street
Make any heart of you glad?
It will only beat with its wings and beat,
It will only sing you mad.
Look through the 'wildering darkness there,
The surge, the crowd, and the cry;
Fluttering wild wings beat and bleed,
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And the water is almost dry:
Straight and close are the cramping bars
From the dawn of mist to the chill of stars,
And yet it must sing or die!
Will its marred harsh voice in the city street
Make any heart of you glad?
It will only beat with its wings and beat,
It will only sing you mad.
Better to lie like this one dead,
Ruffled plumage of breast and head,
Poor little feathers for ever furled,
Only a song gone out of the world!
Ruffled plumage of breast and head,
Poor little feathers for ever furled,
Only a song gone out of the world!
Where the grasses wave like an emerald sea,
And the poppies nod in the corn,
Where the fields are wide and the wind blows free,
This joy of the spring was born,
Whose passionate music loud and loud
In the hush of the rose of morn,
Was a voice that fell from the sailing cloud
Midway to the blue above,—
A thing whose meaning was joy and love,
Whose life was one exquisite outpouring
Of a sweet surpassing note,
And all you have done is to break its wing,
And to blast God's breath in its throat!
And the poppies nod in the corn,
Where the fields are wide and the wind blows free,
This joy of the spring was born,
Whose passionate music loud and loud
In the hush of the rose of morn,
Was a voice that fell from the sailing cloud
Midway to the blue above,—
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Whose life was one exquisite outpouring
Of a sweet surpassing note,
And all you have done is to break its wing,
And to blast God's breath in its throat!
If it does not go to your heart to see
The helpless pity of those bruised wings,
The tireless effort with which it clings
To the strain and the will to be free,
I know not how I shall set in words
The meaning of God in this,
For the loveliest thing in this world of His
Are the ways and the songs of birds.
But the sky, the sky, the wide free sky
For the home of the song-bird's heart!
And why, why and forever why,
Do they stifle here in the mart?
The helpless pity of those bruised wings,
The tireless effort with which it clings
To the strain and the will to be free,
I know not how I shall set in words
The meaning of God in this,
For the loveliest thing in this world of His
Are the ways and the songs of birds.
But the sky, the sky, the wide free sky
For the home of the song-bird's heart!
And why, why and forever why,
Do they stifle here in the mart?
| Feda with Other Poems | |