Thomas Hardy

The Bird-Catcher’s Boy

‘Father, I fear your trade:
Surely it’s wrong!
Little birds limed and made
Captive life-long.

‘Larks bruise and bleed in jail,
Trying to rise;
Every caged nightingale
Soon pines and dies.’

‘Don’t be a dolt, my boy!
Birds must be caught;
My lot is such employ,
Yours to be taught.

‘Soft shallow stuff as that
Out from your head!
Just learn your lessons pat,
Then off to bed.’

Lightless, without a word
Bedwise he fares;
Groping his way is heard
Seek the dark stairs.