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...THE DEATH OF GRANT by AMBROSE BIERCE SLEEPY HOLLOW by WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING (1817-1901) OF A BAD SINGER; EPIGRAM by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE TO THE NIGHTINGALE by JOHN MILTON THE MYSTIC TRUMPETER by WALT WHITMAN TO THE NEW YEAR, 1823 by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |