Classic Poem

A bird sings in a crowded street:
His notes are clear; his tones are sweet;
There is such uproar of the throng
It drowns the sweet bird's loudest song.
The trampling feet raise clouds of dust,
Yet still he sings because he must,
For Nature bids, importunate.
Alas! poor bird, how hard his fate!
With none to heed the songs he sings,
Nor ever free to use his wings.
Would Heaven that he might fly away
To some old forest, green and gray,
And there, in tranquil solitude,
His voice might ring throughout the wood,
And timid creatures, frolicking,
Might pause to heed what he should sing:
But in this noisy, sordid mart
The sweetest bird might break his heart,
Might fall, unnoticed and unknown,
And die, 'mid hurrying feet, alone.