  Black beneath as the night, With wings of a morning glow, From his sooty throat three syllables float, Ravishing, liquid, low; And 'tis oh, for the joy of June, And the bliss that ne'er can flee From that exquisite call, with its sweet, sweet fall— O-ke-lee, o-ke-lee, o-ke-lee! Long ago as a child, From the bough of a blossoming quince, That melody came to thrill my frame, And whenever I've caught it since, The spring-soft blue of the sky And the spring-bright bloom of the tree Are a part of the strain—ah, hear it again!— O-ke-lee, o-ke-lee, o-ke-lee! And the night is tenderly black, The morning eagerly bright, For that old, old spring is blossoming In the soul and in the sight. The red-winged blackbird brings My lost youth back to me, When I hear in the swale, from a gray fence rail, O-ke-lee, o-ke-lee, o-ke-lee! Ethelwyn Wetherald |
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