Sing out, O bird, proclaim thy melody,Thou knowest what I suffer — agony;
Pour forth thy tunes into the ear of space,Perchance the melody heals sickness' case;
Perchance the melody grants hope's reward,Perchance the melody heals wounds abhorred;
Thou art love's songster, bird of garden fair,Thou art light's phantom in oppression's lair;
Guide, O artist, bird of passion's art,In songs and hopes and blessings of the heart;
O artist, in this world of low degreeI hear the deaf yet know not deafness — me;
Light's dawn would ease our misery awhile,Then lifts the veil from those who would beguile;
Fly as thou wilt, fear not the people's stare,Thou art free above regret's despair;
Give, O bird, the tunes of sorrow's strain,Perchance in grief there lies a cure for pain;
Send forth the cry that hope shall chase along,And wake rebellion in ambition's song;
Monk, art thou in love's world, dost thou dwellYet know no pathway to the sacred cell?
How dost thou spend the night, O bird of field,Do birds' nights pass without pain unrevealed?
Where, O bird of love, is hope's abode?Where one who spoke of love or silence strode?
Did sleep forsake thee as thy love grew cold,Did friendship leave thee as thy friends withdrew bold?
That star of love shines bright with yearning fire,Dost thou behold it? Or in dreams aspire?
It sends its light into the bosom dark,It sends its echoes to the eager heart;
Fly by love's inspiration — fear not earth,And do not shrink when danger proves thy worth;
For thou alone, O bird, art truly freeIn worlds too narrow now for liberty.
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