Blackbird is dead.
Yes. That is what I said.
The woods are still. The sun is red.
Cherries near his little head.
Dark is coming. Nanette weeps!
The wind shivers. Nightowl peeps.
Gone the robin's trills and cheeps.
The song is ended. Time sleeps.
Sober the jay in his blue cloak,
Unlike the morning he awoke.
Frog hasn't heart to give a croak.
Adam won't tell his usual joke.
Trees bow. The day must pass.
Silent footstep on the grass.
What deed is this? What manner? What class?
The best of Sundays is gone, alas.
Blackbird is dead; they come and they go.
Summer changes to autumn glow.
All is ever so quiet now, though--
Awaiting the cockcrow.