The Feathered Hermit
Blackbird, who pourest praise,
Deep hidden 'neath the bough,
No bell to call the Hours
Thou needest, thou;
Each hour, O hermit, from thy throat,
Wells thy sweet, soft, peaceful note.
An Aphorism
Time was, I was not here;
Short the time for me, I fear!
Death comes, that is clear;
It is not clear when death is near.
The Blackbird
High trees close me round
Far from the ground the blackbird sings,
Trilling, it chants its lay
Above my well-lined book to-day.
In its soft veil of grey
The wayward cuckoo calls aloud;
Within my wall of green,
My God shrouds me, all unseen.