Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, STORY OF A BLACKBIRD, by ALICE CARY


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

STORY OF A BLACKBIRD, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Come, gather round me, children
Last Line: "this comes of being proud."
Subject(s): Blackbirds; Pride; Self-esteem; Self-respect


COME, gather round me, children,
Who just as you please would do,
And hear me tell what fate befell,
A blackbird that I knew.

He lived one year in our orchard,
From spring till fall, you see,
And swung and swung, and sung and sung,
In the top of the highest tree.

He had a blood-red top-knot,
And wings that were tipped to match:
And he held his head as if he said,
"I'm a fellow hard to catch!"

And never built himself a nest,
Nor took a mate -- not he!
But swung and swung, and sung and sung,
In the top of the highest tree.

And yet, the little bluebird,
So modest and so shy,
Could beat him to death with a single breath,
If she had but a mind to try.

And the honest, friendly robin,
That went in a russet coat,
Though he was n't the bird that sung to be heard,
Had twice as golden a throat.

But robin, bluebird, and all the birds,
Were afraid as they could be;
He looked so proud and sung so loud,
Atop of the highest tree.

We often said, we children,
He only wants to be seen!
For his bosom set like a piece of jet,
In the glossy leaves of green.

He dressed his feathers again and again,
Till the oil did fairly run,
And the tuft on his head, of bright blood-red,
Like a ruby shone in the sun.

But summer lasts not always,
And the leaves they faded brown;
And when the breeze went over the trees,
They fluttered down and down.

The robin, and wren, and bluebird,
They sought a kindlier clime;
But the blackbird cried, in his foolish pride,
"I'll see my own good time!"

And whistled, whistled, and whistled,
Perhaps to hide his pain;
Until, one day, the air grew gray,
With the slant of the dull, slow rain.

And then, wing-tip and top-knot,
They lost their blood-red shine;
Unhoused to be, in the top of a tree,
Was not so very fine!

At first he cowered and shivered,
And then he ceased to sing,
And then he spread about his head,
One drenched and dripping wing.

And stiffer winds at sunset,
Began to beat and blow;
And next daylight the ground was white
With a good inch-depth of snow!

And oh, for the foolish blackbird,
That had n't a house for his head!
The bitter sleet began at his feet
And chilled and killed him dead!

And the rabbit, when he saw him,
Enrapt in his snowy shroud,
Let drop his ears and said, with tears,
"This comes of being proud."





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