THE BLUEBIRD by Emily Dickinson

Before you thought of spring,
Except as a surmise,
You see, God bless his suddenness,
A fellow in the skies
Of independent hues,
A little weather-worn,
Inspiriting habiliments
Of indigo and brown.

With specimens of song,
As if for you to choose,
Discretion in the interval,
With gay delays he goes
To some superior tree
Without a single leaf,
And shouts for joy to nobody
But his seraphic self!

It might occur to you, dear reader, that Americans never could have surmised that on November 2nd, 2008 they awoke to hear their new blackbird singing for no one but his seraphic self.