IN the stone-prisoned tree The Blackbird sings. Oh, what felicity To cage such songs, such wings! Betwixt the houses dull, As in a grove, The Blackbird beautiful Sings his wild songs of love. Nor lacks his inspiration In the dull scene; Sounds the last note of passion Far from the country green. He sings at noon, at night, In stunted boughs, As 'twere a palace of light, A gold and emerald house. As 'twere the wild wood spacious, He sings and stays— Mercy of God most gracious!— Through the Spring nights and days. |