Blackbird
A blackbird piped from yonder tree,
Its flute-like notes were more to me
Than gold or silver e’er could be
For they were sung to waken hope
In hearts where only sorrow spoke.
They spilled upon the morning air
An ecstasy of joyful prayer,
And bade me see the mist-filled morn,
That bud of hope beneath the thorn.
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