HE comes on chosen evenings, My blackbird bountiful, and sings Over the gardens of the town Just at the hour the sun goes down. His flight across the chimneys thick, By some divine arithmetic, Comes to his customary stack, And couches there his plumage black, And there he lifts his yellow bill, Kindled against the sunset, till These suburbs are like Dymock woods Where music has her solitudes, And while he mocks the winter's wrong Rapt on his pinnacle of song, Figured above our garden plots Those are celestial chimney-pots. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...GIVE ME THY HEART by ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER THE RE-CURED LOVER EXULTETH IN HIS FREEDOM by THOMAS WYATT THE PRODIGAL'S BROTHER SPEAKS by BESS SAMUEL AYRES SONGS OF NIGHT TO MORNING: 1. AT THE THEATRE by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) SONNET: 11 by RICHARD BARNFIELD NEW YORK CITY by MAXWELL BODENHEIM NIMROD WARS WITH THE ANGELS by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH THE WANDERER: 2. IN FRANCE: TO MIGNONNE by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |