THE BLACKBIRD.
O Blackbird! sing me something well:
While all the neighbours 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, though I spared thee kith and kin,
Thy sole delight is, sitting still,
With that gold dagger of thy bill
To fret the summer jennetin.
