To a Blackbird and His Mate
Who Died in the Spring
(For Kenton)
An iron hand has stilled the throats
   That throbbed with loud and rhythmic glee
And dammed the flood of silver notes
   That drenched the world in melody.
The blosmy apple boughs are yearning
For their wild choristers’ returning,
   But no swift wings flash through the tree.
Ye that were glad and fleet and strong,
   Shall Silence take you in her net?
And shall Death quell that radiant song
   Whose echo thrills the meadow yet?
Burst the frail web about you clinging
And charm Death’s cruel heart with singing
   Till with strange tears his eyes are wet.
The scented morning of the year
   Is old and stale now ye are gone.
No friendly songs the children hear
   Among the bushes on the lawn.
When babies wander out a-Maying
Will ye, their bards, afar be straying?
   Unhymned by you, what is the dawn?
Nay, since ye loved ye cannot die.
   Above the stars is set your nest.
Through Heaven’s fields ye sing and fly
   And in the trees of Heaven rest.
And little children in their dreaming
Shall see your soft black plumage gleaming
   And smile, by your clear music blest.

Webpage © 2001 ELC
Lane Core Jr. (
Created April 3, 2001; not revised.