thirteen ways of looking at a blackbird
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O thin men of Haddam, Why do you imagine golden birds? Do you not see how the blackbird Walks around the feet Of the women about you?
I know noble accents And lucid, inescapable rhythms; But I know, too, That the blackbird is involved In what I know.
When the blackbird flew out of sight, It marked the edge Of one of many circles.
At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply.
He rode over Connecticut In a glass coach. Once, a fear pierced him, In that he mistook The shadow of his equipage For blackbirds.
The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying.
It was evening all afternoon. It was snowing And it was going to snow. The blackbird sat In the cedar-limbs.
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