Wednesday 3 May 2006

Last night, blackbird singing beautifully in tree outside flat.

I discovered this poem called The Blackbird by W.E. Henley.

The Nightingale has a lyre of gold,
The Lark's is a clarion call,
The Blackbird plays but a boxwood 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 two have listened till he sang
Our hearts and lips together.