Sympathy

I know what the caged bird feels.
When the sun glistens on verdant slopes,
When the wind blows tenderly through springing grass,
And the river floats like a sheet of glass.
When the first bird sings and new lovers hope,
and the faint perfume from a bud-chalice steals.
I know what the caged bird feels.

I know why the caged bird beats his wing
till its blood is red on cruel steel bars,
for he must fly back to his perch and cling
to dreams of being on a bow aswing.
And the blood still throbs in the old, sad scars
and they pulse again with a familiar sting.
I know why he beats his wings.

I know why the caged bird sings,
When its wings are bruised and its bosom sore.
It beats its bars and would be free.
It's not a carol of joy or glee,
but a prayer that it sends from its heart's deep core,
a plea that upward to heaven it flings.
I know why the caged bird sings.