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   
    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!