IT hung in the sun, the little house, It hung in the sun and shone; And through the walls I could hear his voice Who had it all for his own. The walls were of wire, as bright as gold, Wrought in a pretty design; The spaces between for windows served, And the floor was clean and fine. But the door was shut, and locked all tight, The key was on the outside; The one who was in could not get out, No matter how much he tried. 'Twas only a prison, after all, The bright little house that shone; Ah, we would not want a house like that, No matter if 'twere our own! And yet, through the walls I heard the voice Of the one who lived inside: To warble a sweeter song each day, It did seem as if he tried. To open the door he never sought, Nor fluttered in idle strife; He ate and he drank, and slept and sang, And made the best of his life. And I, to myself, said every day, As his cheery song I heard, There's a lesson for us in every note Of that little prisoned bird. We all of us live a life like his, We are walled on every side; We all long to do a hundred things, Which we could not if we tried. We can spend our strength all foolishly In a discontented strife; Or we can be wise, and laugh and sing; And make the best of our life. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PARIS IN SPRING by SARA TEASDALE SUMMER NIGHT-BROADWAY by LOUIS UNTERMEYER CYCLAMENS by KATHERINE HARRIS BRADLEY THE VIRGIN MARY TO THE CHILD JESUS by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING TO MARY by GEORGE GORDON BYRON VERSES ON SEEING THE SPEAKER ASLEEP IN HIS CHAIR by WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED |