Freedom

What ails him, glum and sorrowful, my gaily-painted goldfinch,
echoing his song like a wail?
Is he embittered, I wonder, by the anguish of deprivation:
the open wastes no stage for his fancies,
nor the green boughs a resting place for his feet,
nor the brims of the pools a pasture for his dreams!
At times he puts on a brave face...
and darts away... a flutter and a dance.
Then he shies back in wariness,
and coquets with a lesser wing — oh, the loveliness of that wing!
And he settles on the swing — a handful of cloud dyed in light —
and falls to singing and shrilling, till the whole quarter chants with him!
And he almost makes me believe he is happy and content,
... were it not for a flicker of sorrow on his eyelid!

Alas for you, my beguiled goldfinch!
How stupid I was, to take your burning for warbling!
I heaped about you the delights most craved,
out of excess of fondness,
and with gilding I striped your walls,
so that gaiety might spread through my air...
Oh, my selfishness! Oh, my impiety!

Tomorrow, my goldfinch, with the dawn,
I shall throw the door of your little cage wide open,
and grant you your freedom!
That I may be sure, as you spring forth in a rush,
that there is in your eyes something other than gloom,
and in your song something other than wailing.
And I shall miss you on the feast day...
But my happiness — if only you knew —
comes of your freedom!