A Blackbird Singing
It seems wrong that out of this bird,These words are, what S.T. Coleridge might say, well chosen, thta is "the right word in the right place" and in the right order. In this sense the language is inevitable and apt. Enjoy, and let its wholeness or holism or balance - insofar as it contains both beauty and ugliness, both bright and dark, both happy and sad - bring your mind a contemplator's equanimity.
Black, bold, a suggestion of dark
Places about it, there yet should come
Such rich music, as though the notes'
Ore were changed to a rare metal
At one touch of that bright bill.
You have heard it often, alone at your desk
In a green April, your mind drawn
Away from its work by sweet disturbance
Of the mild evening outside your room.
A slow singer, but loading each phrase
With history's overtones, love, joy
And grief learned by his dark tribe
In other orchards and passed on
Instinctively as they are now,
But fresh always with new tears.