20
The bright butterflies,
And the beetles and bees,
Spread forth their light wings,
And sport where they please.
But there you sit
With a folded wing,
And a broken heart,
Tho' you try to sing.
Might I open your prison
And bid you go,
And build a nest
As you us'd to do,—
And see you soar
With a sparkling eye,
Abroad through the meadows
So joyfully,—
And hear you pouring
The song of the free,—
'T would be a great pleasure
Sweet bird! to me.
