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O BLACKBIRD! sing me something well: While all the neighbors shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell.
The espaliers and the standards all
Are thine; the range of lawn and park: The unnetted blackhearts ripen dark, All thine, against the garden wall.
Yet, though I spared thee kith and kin,
A golden bill! the silver tongue,
And in the sultry garden-squares,
Now thy flute-notes are changed to coarse,
I hear thee not at all, or hoarse
As when a hawker hawks his wares.
Take warning! he that will not sing
DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR.
FULL knee-deep lies the winter snow,
Old year, you must not die;
He lieth still: he doth not move :
THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR.
Old year, you must not go;
So long as you have been with us,
Such joy as you
He frothed his bumpers to the brim;
Old year, you shall not die;
We did so laugh and cry with you,
He was full of joke and jest,
To see him die, across the waste
But he'll be dead before.
Every one for his own.
The night is starry and cold, my friend,
And the New-year, blithe and bold, my friend,
How hard he breathes! over the snow
I heard just now the crowing cock.
The shadows flicker to and fro:
The cricket chirps: the light burns low: 'Tis nearly twelve o'clock.
Shake hands, before you die.
Old year, we'll dearly rue for you:
His face is growing sharp and thin.
Alack! our friend is gone.
Close up his
And waiteth at the door.
There's a new foot on the floor, my friend,