The blackbird

As I went up a woodland walk

In Taunton Dene, when May was green,

I heard a bird so blithely talk,

The trembling sprays between,

That I stood still

With right good will

To know what he might mean.

No yellow horned honey-suckle

Hath e'er distilled the sweets he spilled

In one long dulcet dewy chuckle

That blackbird golden billed;

Ay piping plain,

"Hope, hope again!"

Till my heart's grief was stilled.