The door was shut. I looked between
 Its iron bars; and saw it lie,
 My garden, mine, beneath the sky,
Pied with all flowers bedewed and green:

From bough to bough the song-birds crossed,
 From flower to flower the moths and bees;
 With all its nests and stately trees
It had been mine, and it was lost.

A shadowless spirit kept the gate,
 Blank and unchanging like the grave.
 I peering through said: 'Let me have
Some buds to cheer my outcast state.'

He answered not. 'Or give me, then,
 But one small twig from shrub or tree;
 And bid my home remember me
Until I come to it again.'

The spirit was silent; but he took
 Mortar and stone to build a wall;
 He left no loophole great or small
Through which my straining eyes might look:

So now I sit here quite alone
 Blinded with tears; nor grieve for that,
 For nought is left worth looking at
Since my delightful land is gone.

A violet bed is budding near,
 Wherein a lark has made her nest:
 And good they are, but not the best;
And dear they are, but not so dear.

Of all the birds that I do know
Philip my Sparrow hath no peer;
For sit she high or lie she low,
Be she far off, or be she near,
There is no bird so fair, so fine,
Nor yet so fresh as this of mine.

Come in a morning merrily
When Philip hath been lately fed,
Or in an evening soberly
When Philip list to go to bed;
It is a heaven to hear my Phip
How she can chirp with cherry lip.

She never wanders far abroad,
But is at hand when I do call,
If I command she lays on lode
With lips, with teeth, with tongue and all;
She chants, she chirps, she makes such cheer,
That I believe she hath no peer.

And yet beside all this good sport
My Philip both can sing and dance,
With new found toys of sundry sort
My Philip can both prick and prance;
And if you say but "fend cut Phip"
Lord! how the peat will turn and skip!

Her feathers are so fresh of hue
And so well provéd every day,
So lacks no oil, I warrant you,
To trim her tail both trick and gay;
And though her mouth be somewhat wide,
Her tongue is sweet and short beside.

And for the rest I dare compare
She is both tender, sweet and soft;
She never lacketh dainty fare,
But is well fed, and feedeth oft;
For if my Phip have best to eat,
I warrant you, Phip lacks no meat.

And then if that her meat be good
And such as like do love alway,
She will lay lips thereon, by rood!
And see that none be cast away;
For when she once hath felt a fit,
Philip will cry still, "Yet, yet, yet!"

And to tell truth, he were to blame
Which had so fine a bird as she,
To make him all this goodly game
Without suspect or jealousy;
He were a churl and knew no good
Would see her faint for lack of food.

Wherefore I sing, and ever shall,
To praise as I have often proved,
There is no bird amongst them all
So worthy for to be beloved.
Let others praise what bird they will,
Sweet Philip shall be my bird still.