I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
   When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;  
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,  
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
   When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,  
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals—
I know what the caged bird feels!
I know why the caged bird beats his wing
   Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;  
For he must fly back to his perch and cling  
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
   And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars  
And they pulse again with a keener sting—
I know why he beats his wing!
I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
   When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,—
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
   But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core,  
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings—
I know why the caged bird sings!