THE CAGE

By Walter de la Mare

Why did you flutter in vain hope, poor bird,

Hard-pressed in your small cage of clay?

‘ Twas but a sweet, false echo that you heard,

Caught only a feint of day.

Still is the night all dark, a homeless dark.

Burn yet the unanswering stars. And silence brings

The same sea's desolate surge — sans bound or mark —

Of all your wanderings.

Fret now no more; be still. Those steadfast eyes,

Those folded hands, they cannot set you free;

Only with beauty wake wild memories —

Sorrow for where you are, for where you would be.