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!
It is a sign of extraordinary talent or genius when one
before he reaches his thirtieth year is recognized in representative
journals as being among the literary men of his times, yet Paul Laurence
Dunbar enjoyed this proud distinction. read more
