To The Blackbird
Golden Bill! Golden Bill!
Lo! the peep of day;
All the air is cool and still,
From the elm tree on the hill,
Chant away:
While the moon drops down the west,
Like thy mate upon her nest,
And the stars before the sun
Melt, like snow-flakes, one by one,
Let thy loud and welcome lay
Pour along
Few notes, but strong.
Montgomery.
Fled are the frosts, and now the Fields appear