The Blackbird

A bird from yonder branch at dawn Is trilling forth a joyful note, Or hopping o'er the frozen lawn, In yellow boots and ebon coat.

It is the blackbird credulous. Little of calendar knows he, Whose soul, with sunbeams luminous, Sings April to the snows that be.

Rain sweeps in torrents unrepressed. The Arve makes dull the Rhone with mire. The pleasant hall retains its guest In goodly cheer before the fire.

The mountains have their ermine on, Each one a mighty magistrate, And hold grave conference upon A case of Winter lasting late.

The bird dries well his wing, and long, Despite the rains, the mists that roll, Insists upon his little song, Believes in Spring with all his soul.

He softly chides the slumberous morn For dallying so long abed, And bids the shivering flower forlorn Be bold, and raise aloft its head;

Behind the dark sees day that smiles, Even as behind the Holy Rod, When bare the altar, dim the aisles, The child of faith beholds his God.

He trusts to Nature's purpose high, Sure of her laws for here and now. Who laughs at thy philosophy, Dear blackbird, is less wise than thou!