Oh, how with more than dreams the soul is torn, ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.

Poor conceited humanity! Interpreters of God indeed.

Oh, how with more than dreams the soul is torn, ere sleep comes down to soothe the weary eyes.

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me, When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,- When he beats his bars and 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!

Washington is the city where the big men of little towns come to be disillusioned

I know what the caged bird feels, alas!

We reduce the deity to vulgar fractions. We place our own little ambitions and label them ?divine messages?. With our short sight we affect to take a comprehensive view of eternity.