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This poem is often wrongly thought to be by Robert W Service. It is published here to the memory of Hugh Antoine D'Arcy, its rightful father.
An Evening with the Bard of the Yukon, July 18 th 2003 at 20.30pm in the Town-Hall of Lancieux, Brittany.
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Caged Lark

Published by Webmaster on 07/30/2003 (2975 reads)
She tried and tried to make me sing,

Caged Lark

She tried and tried to make me sing,
That sick girl in the wicker chair,
As with my bleeding breast and wing
I beat the bars in my despair:
She said, "If you belonged to me
This moment I would set you free.

"I've half a mind to reach your cage
And open wide its door of wire,
The Matron would be red with rage:
'Who slipped the latch?' she would inquire,
And if I said it was not I,
Would God forgive me for the lie?"

The lone girl in the wicker chair
Is very low and soon must die;
Like sun-flower golden is her hair,
like dark anemone her eye.
So beautiful, so soon to go . . .
Fain would I sing to ease her woe.

She whistles with her scanty breath;
To make me sing she tries and tries.
Her face is like a mask of death . . .
If I could cheer her as she dies
I'd break  my heart remembering
The melodies of ghostly Spring.

I'll cease to beat my bars in vain,
With panting beak and wings outspread,
because I see it gives her pain . . .
Look! How the sunset kindles red!
At once on wings I used to soar
I'll sing as ne'er I sang before.

What joy lights up her wasted face!
Her gladness is beyond belief.
Her blessing is above all grace,
My rapture has alloyed her grief. . . .
I'll sing and sing,
caged souls are we,
Beseeching God to set us free.


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