Behold, upon yon ivy bunch, my darling blackbird sings;
I know not why nor shall I try to understand such things.
For born this morning on a song, pray hark, her sweet refrain;
to chance a sigh, oh, dare not I, for this is God\'s domain.
Out of the night the art of song in tuning in the day;
unknowed afore or evermore such music on display.
\'Tis love begad, a lover\'s song, a diva, I declare,
in soaring o\'er both vale and moor, this morning\'s love affair.
In wonder\'s charm, this precious bird in song to comfort me.
Alone I stroll, no proffered soul to share my company.
Yet rare this morn, in splendours all, true love like none afore;
let passions roll, in song extol, in verse the morn\'s rapport.
Be succour in such music found for autumn ails me so,
when summer\'s run, the harvest done, to rest my scythe and hoe.
Of idle lands and nowt ado, to wait without employ.
Yet, hail the sun, my kingdom won, when sings that bird of joy.
Behold her charm and charmed, I am while autumn leaves still fall.
\'Tis life anew, a sweeter brew when hear the songstress call.
Though winter’s nigh, with strength and will, we’ll bear our pain and fear;
\'tis all to do, good hearts and true, sings autumn\'s sonneteer.