Who in night hath conjured up the
form of fallen bird,
its breast asunder?
the shot hath broke its heart.
oh poor bird, rest not thy tattered wing
or feathers wont to slumber deep;
cease not thy song or all shall seek
the throes of silent sleep!
if for every bird
a breast; for every breast a heart
flush with blood has bled but white oh
poor bird! do not cease thy song!
if for every heart a leaden ball
then why do flocks turn south
and brave the noisome guns,
their breasts thrown bare to all?
simply this: that every bird
whose heart hath burst
is born to flight,
and grows to song;
it knows no fall.