THE BLACKBIRD. O BLACKBIRD! sing me something well: While all the neighbors shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell. The espaliers and the standards all Are thine; the range of lawn and park : The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark, All thine, against the garden wall. Yet, tho' I spared thee all the spring, A golden bill the silver tongue, Now thy flute-notes are changed to His face is growing sharp and thin. And waiteth at the door. There's a new foot on the floor, my I have not look'd upon you nigh, Since that dear soul hath fall'n asleep. And tho' mine own eyes fill with dew, And a new face at the door, my friend, I will not even preach to you, TO J. S. THE wind, that beats the mountain, blows That are cast in gentle mould. And me this knowledge bolder made, Or else I had not dared to flow "Weep, weeping dulls the inward pain.' |