Classic Poem

Snug in the nest the young bird lies
Until its wings are strong,
And then it cleaves the buoyant skies,
Bearing, if near or far it flies,
A message and a song.

So fledging thoughts, unfinished things,
Nest in the poet's head;
But Music trains their sprouting wings
Till from the poet's brain each springs,
And flies when he is dead!