Dora Sigerson Shorter

An Irish Blackbird

This is my brave singer,
   With his beak of gold;
Now my heart’s a captive
   In his song’s sweet hold.

O, the lark’s a rover,
   Seeking fields above:
But my serenader
   Hath a human love.

“Hark!” he says, “in winter
   Nests are full of snow,
But a truce to wailing
   Summer breezes blow.”

“Hush!” he sings, “with night-time
   Phantoms cease to be,
Join your serenader
   Piping on his tree.”

O, my little lover,
   Warble in the blue;
Wingless must I envy
   Skies so wide for you.