Bohemian Poems, Ancient and Modern/The Little Bird
For works with similar titles, see The Little Bird.
THE LITTLE BIRD.
MY dearest, dearest mother!
Come tell, O tell to me,
What that, which in my bosom
Unceasing plays can be?
It playeth and it singeth,
Sometimes about it springs;
Sure shut up in my bosom’s
A little bird with wings.
Up stairs a cage is ready,
O go and fetch it here,
We’ll catch the little birdie,
And close confine him there.
We’ll place him in the window,
And he to us shall sing,
Both when we’re at our supper,
And when we’re breakfasting.