As a dare-gale skylark scanted in a dull cage, Man's mounting spirit in his bone-house, mean house, dwells — That bird beyond the remembering h{'i}s free fells;
This in drudgery, day-labouring-out life's age.
Though aloft on turf or perch or poor low stage Both sing somet{'i}mes the sweetest, sweetest spells, Yet both droop deadly s{'o}metimes in their cells Or wring their barriers in bursts of fear or rage.
Not that the sweet-fowl, song-fowl, needs no rest — Why, hear him, hear him babble |&| drop down to his nest, But his own nest, wild nest, no prison.
Man's spirit will be flesh-bound, when found at best,
But {'u}nc{'u}mber{`e}d: meadow-d{'o}wn is n{'o}t distr{'e}ssed For a r{'a}inbow f{'o}oting it nor h{'e} for his b{'o}nes r{'i}sen.
