208 More Tales of the Birds 



an instant into a full and mellow sweetness, and 

 then died away again. They were never con- 

 tinuous only fragments of song ; as if the 

 bird were talking in the sweetest of contralto 

 voices to a friend whose answers were unheard. 

 No other bird was singing, and the rooks were 

 too far away in the elms to break harshly with 

 their cawing on the blackbird's quiet strain. 



The Poet listened for a while enraptured, 

 watching the dark form of the singer, and the 

 " orange-tawny " bill from which the notes came 

 so softly, so hesitatingly ; and then drew in his 

 head and began to dress, still keeping the 

 window open, and repeating to himself 



" O Blackbird, sing me something well : 



Though all the neighbours shoot thee round, 

 I keep smooth plats of garden ground 

 Where thou may'st warble, eat, and dwell. 



"The espaliers, and the standards, all 



Are thine ; the range of lawn and park : 

 The unnetted blackhearts ripen dark, 

 All thine, against the garden wall." 



A few minutes later he was in the garden 

 himself, scenting the dew and the fragrant earth, 



