UPON a tall piano stool I have to sit and play A stupid finger exercise For half an hour a day. They call it "playing," but to me It's not a bit of fun. I play when I am out of doors, Where I can jump and run. But Mother says the little birds Who sing so nicely now, Had first to learn, and practice too, All sitting on a bough. And maybe if I practice hard, Like them, I too, some day, Shall make the pretty music sound; Then I shall call it "play." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 22 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING MIDWINTER BLUES by JAMES LANGSTON HUGHES DARWINISM by AGNES MARY F. ROBINSON SUMTER [APRIL 12, 1861] by EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN CORTEGE FOR ROSENBLOOM by WALLACE STEVENS THE LAMPLIGHTER by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON THE BALLAD OF DEAD LADIES by FRANCOIS VILLON HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 39 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH |