The bee is asleep in the heart of the rose,

The lark’s nestled soft in the cloud,

The swallow lies snug close under the eaves—

But the blackbird’s fluting is loud;

He pipes as no hermit would or should,

Half a mile deep in the heart of the wood,

In the green dark heart of the wood.

The raven’s asleep in the thick of the oak,

His head close under his wing;

The lark’s come down to his home on the earth—

But the blackbird still will sing,

Making the heart of the dark wood thrill

With the notes that come from his golden bill,

That flow from his golden bill.

—Walter Thornbury.