On the whitest plumes of the Mayflower-tree,
The blackbird loves to sing,
There he prunes his breast with his golden beak,
And ruffles his glossy black wing.
Or he creeps to the sweet tree's innermost heart,
And jugs with his mellow pipe;
He whistles and flutes to the apple-flowers;
The cherry will soon be ripe."
He sings to the rose-cloud over his head,
To the blossoms, and leaves, and buds;
To the rainbow drops of the April rain,
And the shower that brightens and scuds;
Then nestles close to the May-tree's heart,
And sings of the brave year's prime,
Of the crimson joy that cannot cloy,
In the coining cherry-time.
