Once in our customed walk a wounded bird, With feeble effort fluttering awhile, Fell at my feet; unknowing of its hurt, "Poor thing, 'tis sick," I said, and laid it on My bosom; it could not rest for pain; So tenderly I gave it to thy care. -- "Look -- Ah it bleeds! we cannot save nor ease it, -- See its torn wing -- its shattered panting breast -- It writhes its little limbs with grievous pain; And now its dim eyes close -- quite close -- it dies! Poor pretty bird! -- Could he who did this deed, Have seen thy lingering life in torture thus Expire, I know he would forbear to kill." -- "Nay, nay, dear Mary! thou hast much to learn." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: JOHN CABANIS by EDGAR LEE MASTERS LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM A SKULL by GEORGE GORDON BYRON ECHO by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE TOMORROW by FELIX LOPE DE VEGA CARPIO THE MODERN MOTHER by ALICE MEYNELL TO ONE IN PARADISE by EDGAR ALLAN POE SONNET: 12 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE |