Poems (Kimball)/The Stuffed Bird

by Harriet McEwen Kimball

THE STUFFED BIRD.

OUT through the window you wish it would fly
And then come back to you by and by;
Ruffle its feathers and flutter its wings,
And sing such a song as the bobolink sings?
Its plumage is splendid, and yet you are tired
Of the treasure at first so greatly admired,
Perched motionless, though with a semblance flight,
On the self-same twig from morning till night?

And birds are so restless, so eager, so wise,
So rapid the glance of their bright little eyes!
How they tremble, and quiver, and flutter, and dart,
As if they were nothing but wings and a heart!
Why, verily, if it were left me to choose,
This tropical beauty I'd willingly lose
If suddenly, swiftly, one rapturous thrill
This bright little throat with a song-burst would fill,
And these glad wings all quickened and eager for flight
Would flash through the window and soar out of sight.
I think not a sigh from my dearie or me
Would wish back the captive that life had set free.

'T is the absence of life where life has once stirred
That makes this poor bird so unlike a bird
That even its splendor, a weariness grown,
Enchants us no longer with charms of its own.
So lifeless it is that one must needs strive
To so much as believe it was ever alive.

Ah, see what a contrast!—look, dearie, and see
That little brown bird in the evergreen tree,
With no beauty to beast of, and one little note
Like a musical throb in its live little throat!
Incessant it flits through the branches, and now
Darts outward and up to the loftiest bough
In the joy of mere being to carol and swing!
Why, that is a creature, but this is a thing!