R.H. Stoddard - Birds

R.H. Stoddard

Birds

Birds are singing round my window,
Tunes the sweetest ever heard,
And I hang my cage there daily,
But I never catch a bird.

So with thoughts my brain is peopled,
And they sing there all day long:
But they will not fold their pinions
In the little cage of Song.

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to fold the wings – складывать крылья

pinion ['pɪnjən] – перо, (поэт.) крыло