Sympathy
By Paul Laurence Dunbar

I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
     When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;  
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,  
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
     When the first bird sings and the first bud opens,  
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals—
I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing
     Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;  
For he must fly back to his perch and cling  
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
     And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars  
And they pulse again with a keener sting—
I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
     When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
     But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core,  
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings—
I know why the caged bird sings!