Blackbird

A million things in the eye of a blackbird;
Could be women old, lovers cold,
Flames turned dust, or love turned lust,
From a perching point, high in the trees,
A tuneful song to the whistle o'breeze,
A rhyme enough for passers-by,
To stop, and see the twinkle in his eye,
And one to whisper "What's that blackbird said?",
Only for the sane to pause, "Are you right in the head?",
But to me, the sweet pitch of the blackbird's song,
Will never make mine, nor thine head as wrong,
As beautiful as a melting sunset, in the western sky,
More beautiful, a silhouette of a blackbird, flying by.