 I know what the caged bird feels, alas, when the sun is bright on the upland slopes, when the wind stirs soft through the springing grass and the river flows like a stream of glass, when the first bird sings and the first bud opes and the faint perfume from its chalice steals. I know what the caged bird feels. I know why the caged bird beats his wing till its blood is red on the cruel bars, for he must fly back to his perch and cling when he feign would be on the bow a swing, and a pain still throbs in the old, old scars and they pulse again with a keener sting. I know why he beats his wing. I know why the caged bird sings, ah, me, when his wing is bruised and his bosom soar, when he beats his bars and he 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. I know what the caged bird feels, alas, when the sun is bright on the upland slopes, when the wind stirs soft through the springing grass and the river flows like a stream of glass, when the first bird sings and the first bud-opes and the faint perfume from its chalice steels. I know what the caged bird feels. I know why the caged bird beats his wings till its blood is red on the cruel bars, for he must fly back to his perch and cling when he feign would be on the bow a swing, and a pain still throbs in the old, old scars and they pulse again with a keener sting. I know why he beats his wings. I know why the caged bird sings, ah me, when his wing is bruised and his bosom soar, when he beats his bars and he 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sympathy by Paul Lauren Stunbar. Redphilippivox.org by Corey Samuel. In England 2007. I know what the caged bird feels, alas, when the sun is bright on the upland slopes, when the wind stirs soft through the springing grass and the river flows like a stream of glass, when the first bird sings and the first bud hopes, and the faint perfume from its chalice steals. I know what the caged bird feels. I know why the caged bird beats his wing, till its blood is red on the cruel bars, for he must fly back to his perch and cling when he feign would be on the bow a swing, and a pain still throbs in the old, old scars and they pulse again with a keener sting. I know why he beats his wing. I know why the caged bird sings, army, when his wing is bruised and his bosom sore, when he beats his bars and he 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. Sympathy by Paul Lawrence Dunbar Read for LibriVox.org by David Barnes I know what the caged bird feels, alas, when the sun is bright on the upland slopes, when the wind stirs soft through the springing grass, and the river flows like a stream of glass, when the first bird sings and the first bud opts, and the faint perfume from its chalice steels. I know what the caged bird feels. I know why the caged bird beats his wing till its blood is red on the cruel bars, for he must fly back to his perch and cling when he feign would be on the bower's swing, and a pain still throbs in the old, old scars, and they pulse again with a keenest sting. I know why he beats his wing. I know why the caged bird sings, army, when his wing is bruised and his bosom sore, when he beats his bars and he 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I know why the caged bird sings. End of poem. I know why the caged bird sings. End of poem. I know why the caged bird sings. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sympathy by Paul Lawrence Dunbar, read for LibreVox.org by Eswa. I know what the caged bird feels, alas, when the sun is bright on the upland slopes, when the wind stirs soft through the springing grass and the river flows like a stream of glass, when the first bird sings and the first bird hopes, and the faint perfume from its chalice steers. I know what the caged bird feels. I know why the caged bird beats his wing till its blood is red on the cruel bars, for he must fly back to his perch and cling when he feign would be on the bow swing, and the pain still throbs in the old, old scars, and they pounce again with a keen asting. I know why he beats his wing. I know why the caged bird sings, army, when his wing is bruised and his bosom sore, when he beats his bars and he 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sympathy by Paul Lawrence Dunbar. Read for LibriVox.org by Jimmy Anderson. I know what the caged bird feels, alas, when the sun is bright on the upland slopes, when the wind stirs soft through the springing grass and the river flows like a stream of glass, when the first bird sings and the first bud hopes, and the faint perfume from its chalice steels, I know what the caged bird feels. I know why the caged bird beats his wing till its blood is red on the cruel bars, for he must fly back to his perch and cling when he feign would be on the bow swing, and a pain still throbs in the old, old scars and they pounce again with a keen asting. I know why he beats his wing. I know why the caged bird sings, ah, me, when his wing is bruised and his bosom soar, when he beats his bars and he 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sympathy by Paul Lawrence Dunbar. Read for LibriVox.org by Kristen Hughes. I know what the caged bird feels, alas, when the sun is bright on the upland slopes, when the wind stirs soft through the springing grass, and the river flows like a stream of glass, when the first bird sings and the first bud hopes, when the faint perfume from its chalice steals. I know what the caged bird feels. I know why the caged bird beats his wings till its blood is red on the cruel bars, for he must fly back to his perch and cling when he feign would be on the bow a swing, and a pain still throbs in the old, old scars and they pounce again with a keen asting. I know why he beats his wing. I know why the caged bird sings, army, when his wing is bruised and his bosom soar, when he beats his bars and he 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass and the river flows like a stream of glass, when the first bird sings and the first bud opens and the faint perfume from its chalice steals. I know what the caged bird feels. I know why the caged bird beats his wing till its blood is red on the cruel bars, for he must fly back to his perch and cling when he feign would be on the bow a swing, and a pain still throbs in the old, old scars and they pounce again with a keen asting. I know why he beats his wing. I know why the caged bird sings. When his wing is bruised and his bosom soar, when he beats his bars and he 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sympathy by Paul Lawrence Dunbar, read for Librabox.org by Laurie Ann Walden, January 2007. I know what the caged bird feels alas when the sun is bright on the upland slopes, when the wind stirs soft through the springing grass and the river flows like a stream of glass, when the first bird sings and the first bird oaks and the faint perfume from its chalice steals. I know what the caged bird feels. I know why the caged bird beats his wing till its blood is red on the cruel bars, for he must fly back to his perch and cling when he feign would be on the bow a swing, and a pain still throbs in the old, old scars and they pounce again with a keen asting. I know why he beats his wing. I know why the caged bird sings, ah me, when his wing is bruised and his bosom sore. When he beats his bars and he would be free, it is not a cowl 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I know what the caged bird feels, alas, when the sun is bright on the upland slopes, when the wind stirs soft through the springing grass and the river flows like a stream of glass, when the first bird sings and the first bud oaks and the faint perfume from its chalice steals. I know what the caged bird feels. I know why the caged bird beats his wing till its blood is red on the cruel bars, for he must fly back to his perch and cling when he feign would be on the bow, a swing, and a pain still throbs in the old, old scars and they pounce again with a keen asting. I know why he beats his wing. I know why the caged bird sings, ha, me, when his wing is bruised and his bosom soar, when he beats his bars and he 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. This recording is in the public domain. Sympathy by Paul Lawrence Dunbar for LibriVox.org, narrated by Sean McKinley. I know what the caged bird feels, alas, when the sun is bright on the upland slopes, when the wind stirs soft through the springing grass, and the river flows like a stream of glass, when the first bird sings and the first bud opes, and the faint perfume from its chalice steals. I know what the caged bird feels. I know why the caged bird beats his wings till its blood is red on the cruel bars, for he must fly back to his perch and cling when he feign would be on the bow a swing, and a pain still throbs in the old, old scars and they pulse again with a keener sting. I know why he beats his wing. I know why the caged bird sings. Ah, me, when his wing is bruised and his bosom soar, when he beats his bars and he 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sympathy by Paul Lawrence Dunbar. Read for LibriVox.org by Sam Fold. I know what the caged bird feels, alas, when the sun is bright on the upland slopes, when the wind stirs soft through the springing grass, and the river flows like a stream of glass. When the first bird sings and the first bud hopes, and the faint perfume from its chalice steals, I know what the caged bird feels. I know why the caged bird beats his wing, since blood is red on the cruel bars, for he must fly back to his perch and cling when he feign would be on the bow a swing, and a pain still throbs in the old, old scars, and they pulse again with a keener sting. I know why he beats his wing. I know why the caged bird sings. Ah, me, when his wing is bruised and his bosom soar, when he beats his bars and he would be free. This 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I know what the caged bird feels. I know why the caged bird beats his wing, till it's blood is red on the cruel bars, for he must fly back to his perch and cling when he feign would be on the bow a swinging, and a pain still throbs in the old, old scars, and they pulse again with a keener sting. I know why the caged bird beats his wing, I know why the caged bird sings. Ah, me, when his wing is bruised and his bosom soar, when he beats his bars and he 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sympathy by Paul Lawrence Dunbar Read for LibriVox.org by Ted DeLorm. I know what the caged bird feels, alas, when the sun is bright on the upland slopes. I know why the caged bird sings. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sympathy by Paul Lawrence Dunbar When the sun is bright on the upland slopes, when the wind stirs soft through the springing grass, and the river flows like a stream of glass, when the first bird sings and the first bud opes, and the faint perfume from its chalice steels, I know what the caged bird feels. I know why the caged bird beats his wing till its blood is red on the cruel bars, for he must fly back to his perch and cling when he feign would be on the bow a swing, and a pain still throbs in the old, old scars, and they pulse again with a keener sting. I know why he beats his wing. I know why the caged bird sings. Ah, me, when his wing is bruised and his bosom soar, when he beats his bars and he 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sympathy by Paul Lawrence Dunbar. Read for LibriVox.org by Val Grimm on January 17, 2007. I know what the caged bird feels, alas, when the sun is bright on the upland slopes, when the wind stirs soft through the spring and grass, and the river flows like a stream of glass, when the first bird sings and the first bud opes, and the faint perfume from its chalice steels, I know what the caged bird feels. I know why the caged bird beats his wing till its blood is red on the cruel bars, for he must fly back to his perch and cling when a feign would be on the bow a swing, and a pain still throbs in the old, old scars, and they pulse again with a keener sting. I know why he beats his wing. I know why the caged bird sings, ah, me, when his wing is bruised and his bosom soar, when he beats his bars and he would be free. It is not a carol of joy or glee, but a prayer that he sends from his heart's steep core, but a plea that upward to heaven he flings. I know why the caged bird sings. Thank you for watching.