The Captive

This toil-free moment moves me to dissent –
there are no hours of freedom, since the mind
is no more able, of its natural bent,
to speak with accents carefree, unconfined
by craven thoughts; but it must choose
those syllables which meaning often lose
through their propinquity to common sense.
Prosaic patter of the people, whence
Poetry must free the patient word,
engaging song, with soft sweet sibilants,
bewitching as a song-bird’s chants;
one, moment seeming free, but, next, a word,
studied, encaged for life, a captured bird.