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written by John Drinkwater
Tides, 1917 Link to further information

 He comes on chosen evenings,
 My blackbird bountiful, and sings
 Over the garden of the town
 Just at the hour the sun goes down.
 His flight across the chimneys thick,
 By some divine arithmetic,
 Comes to his customary stack,
 And couches there his plumage black,
 And there he lifts his yellow bill,
 Kindled against the sunset, till
 These suburbs are like Dymock woods
 Where music has her solitudes,
 And while he mocks the winter's wrong
 Rapt on his pinnacle of song,
 Figured above our garden plots
 Those are celestial chimney-pots.

SemiPD-icon.png This work is in the public domain in countries where the copyright term is the author's life plus 70 years or less.