If my heart had a quill and an inkwell,
’Twould scribble without end, night and day.
Had it but a voice, it would sing, tell
All, everything I would say.
But my restless pen gets set down, how
I wish I had time to give life
To the words that my heart yearns to write now,
Though with time thoughts of ink do run dry.
Yet often, my voice can be strong, loud!
And alone my song is often heard. But,
I hide behind my feathers, do not sing proud;
At heart, a solitary bird.