In the wood

You birds in the swinging branches,

How merry and fresh and free are you

With your trembling morning choirs.

I feel sick at heart

When I hear it from down below.

I sneak outside for an hour

To go to your pleasant summer house

I must complain about my fate;

You live in fun and happiness,

In the trees, day and night.

You seek the green roof of the wood,

The pastures green, the streams with stones;

You flee from town and wall

And leave the people to sigh, oh,

In their birdcage.