The Blackbird

Dearest, these household cares remit;
And while the sky is blue to-day,
Here in this sunny shelter sit,
To list the blackbird's lay.

Is all so rare, romantic boy?
Is love so new and strange, that thou
Must with that wild and shrilling joy
Thrill the yet wintry bough?

Ah, now 'tis softer grown, more sweet, —
'I come, I come, O love, O my love,' —
And he is fluttering to her feet
In yonder purple grove.

Now hark! all summer swells the note
And dreams of mellow ripeness make
So ripe, so rich his warbling throat
For spouse and children's sake.

Lover and prophet, see! the flower
Of cherry is hardly white, and figs
Are leafless, and thy nuptial bower
A cage of rattling twigs.

Yet faith is evidence, and hope
Substance, and love sufficient fire;
And Art in these finds ampler scope
Than in fulfill'd desire.

So play thy Pan's pipe, happy Faun,
Till some May night with moonshine pale,
Thou pin'st, to hear by wood or lawn
Apollo's nightingale.