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F. L. Čelakovský (1799–1852)

THE BIRD

 

Oh, tell me, mother dear,
What stirs within my breast,
That flutters playfully,
And never gives me rest.

It plays there and it sings
Or leaps into the air.
I feel within my heart
A bird imprisoned there.”

Go up into the loft
And bring the cage you find.
Your little bird we’ll catch
And keep him there confined.

Then to the window-sill
The little bird we’ll bring.
At supper-time to us,
At breakfast, he will sing.”

 

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