The Captive

I twined a net; I drove a stake; laid a glittering bait.
With still of dewfall stepped my prey; cried — and cried too late.
I clutched him by his golden curls: I penned his flutterings.
Secure within a golden cage he beats in vain his wings.

But why is now their beauty gone
From woods where once it happy shone?
Why is my bosom desolate,
When entering in at fall of eve,
I listen at the wicket gate,
And hear my captive grieve?
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