Song

"With sweet May dews my wings were wet,
   And Phoebus fir'd by vocal range;
He caught me in his silken net,
   And shut me in his golden cage.

He loves to sit and hear me sing,
   Then, laughs, sports and plays with me;
The stretches out my golden wing,
   And mocks my loss liberty"

(A portion of) "Song" William Blake