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O blackbird!
sing me something well:
While all the neighbors
shoot thee round,
I keep smooth plats of fruitful
ground,
Where thou mayst 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,
Thy sole delight is, sitting still,
With that gold dagger of thy bill
To fret the
summer jenneting.
A golden bill! ths silver
tongue,
Cold February loved, is dry;
Plenty
corrupts the melody
That made thee famous once when
young;
And in the sultry garden-squares,
Now
thy flute-notes are changed to coarse,
I hear thee
not at all, or hoarse
As when a hawker hawks his
wares.
Take warning! he that will not sing
While yon sun prospers in the blue,
Shall sing
for want, ere leaves are new,
Caught in the frozen
palms of Spring.
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