An Irish Blackbird
By Dora Sigerson Shorter
This is my brave singer,
With his beak of gold;
Now my hearts a captive
In his songs sweet hold.
O, the larks a rover,
Seeking fields above:
But my serenader
Hath a human love.
Hark! he says, in winter
Nests are full of snow,
But a truce to wailing
Summer breezes blow.
Hush! he sings, with night-time
Phantoms cease to be,
Join your serenader
Piping on his tree.
O, my little lover,
Warble in the blue;
Wingless must I envy
Skies so wide for you.