THE BLACKBIRD’S SONG.
The bee is asleep in the heart of the rose,
The lark’s nestled soft in the cloud,
The swallow lies snug close under the eaves—
But the blackbird’s fluting is loud;
He pipes as no hermit would or should,
Half a mile deep in the heart of the wood,
In the green dark heart of the wood.
The raven’s asleep in the thick of the oak,
His head close under his wing;