My spirit is a captive bird That beats against its cage all day, Until its winging strength is whirred Vainly away.
My spirit learns its impotence Only when night has blurred its bars. Wings seem a strange impertinence Before the stars.
The speaker imagines her spirit as a caged bird, beating against its bars all day. The bird is not literal—it is her inner life struggling against whatever confines it. The winging strength is “whirred vainly away”: not just stopped, but spent uselessly, like an engine spinning with no result.
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