Poems (Kimball)/The Stuffed Bird
THE STUFFED BIRD.
OUT through the window you wish it would fly And then come back to you by and by; Ruffle its feathers and flutter its wings, And sing such a song as the bobolink sings?Its plumage is splendid, and yet you are tired Of the treasure at first so greatly admired, Perched motionless, though with a semblance flight, On the self-same twig from morning till night?
And birds are so restless, so eager, so wise, So rapid the glance of their bright little eyes!How they tremble, and quiver, and flutter, and dart,As if they were nothing but wings and a heart!Why, verily, if it were left me to choose, This tropical beauty I'd willingly lose If suddenly, swiftly, one rapturous thrill This bright little throat with a song-burst would fill, And these glad wings all quickened and eager for flight Would flash through the window and soar out of sight. I think not a sigh from my dearie or me Would wish back the captive that life had set free.
'T is the absence of life where life has once stirred That makes this poor bird so unlike a bird That even its splendor, a weariness grown, Enchants us no longer with charms of its own. So lifeless it is that one must needs strive To so much as believe it was ever alive.
Ah, see what a contrast!—look, dearie, and see That little brown bird in the evergreen tree, With no beauty to beast of, and one little note Like a musical throb in its live little throat! Incessant it flits through the branches, and now Darts outward and up to the loftiest bough In the joy of mere being to carol and swing!Why, that is a creature, but this is a thing!