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.