The Blackbird
By William Ernest Henley
The nightingale has a lyre of gold;
The lark’s is a clarion call,
And the blackbird plays but a box-wood flute,
But I love him best of all.
For his song is all of the joy of life,
And we in the mad, spring weather,
We too have listened till he sang
Our hearts and lips together.
Copyright © by the author.
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