The blackbirds with bright gilded beaks
Stand on the wall against the sun.
As they have done these winter weeks,
Supposing spring in sight again.

They eat their crumbs, then lightly sing
Brief catches back and forth a while.
Some years ago, I was among
Those whom such songs could not unchill.

But now these treble moments please
Me more, for when the blackbirds stand,
All jet and gold, and, trilling, face
The sun, mute winter seems to end.