John Drinkwater

Blackbird

He comes on chosen evenings,
 
My blackbird bountiful, and sings
 
Over the gardens of the town
 
Just at the hour the sun goes down.
 
His flight across the chimneys thick,
 
By some divine arithmetic,
 
Comes to his customary stack,
 
And couches there his plumage black,
 
And there he lifts his yellow bill,
 
Kindled against the sunset, till
 
These suburbs are like Dymock woods
 
Where music has her solitudes,
 
And while he mocks the winter’s wrong
 
Rapt on his pinnacle of song,
 
Figured above our garden plots
 
Those are celestial chimney-pots.
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