Within an unseen cage he sings,
Hung high above t e rush of feet,
He ruffles up his little wings,
This poet of the noisy street.
I stop and look, but all in vain,
He pipes not near a single cloud,
And yet though soft as April rain
His melody is clear and loud.
What makes him sing? He cannot see
The green fields of his native place,
Nor hill and stream, nor glen and tree,
Nor haunts that suit his singing race.
Perchance a single sunbeam floats
About him where the space is dim;
He feels the light, and all his notes
Gush out: it is enough for him.
Bold heart! he knows in his own way
What that sweet touch of sunshine brings
From far-off fields the summer day
Whose light is that to which he sings.
Ah, would that I who stand and hear
His music, he himself unseen,
Could make my doubting heart his peer,
And sing of seasons that have been.
In vain. The narrow streets surround
 A dull unthinking brain, and I
Can only touch a note where sound
Is heard, and only heard to die.
But he—he is so strong, and rife
With that large heart of his, that he
Draws from a spot of early life
Enough to make his melody.
And so he sings, hung far above
The daily round of eager feet,
And pours out from his heart of love
A gush of song upon the street.