The Morning Bird is a bird I hear every day at first light, but I do not know yet which bird it is. When I look outside it is till too dark to discern any kind of small thing aloft and soon enough the magpies and cockatoos add to the chorus and the search is fruitless.

Still on the theme of birds in poetry, Larkin wrote the following piece, Coming, a recollection about childhood. But of course, there is a bird.

Coming

On longer evenings,
Light, chill and yellow

Bathes the serene

Foreheads of houses.

A thrush sings

Laurel-surrounded

In the deep bare garden,

It's fresh-peeled voice

Astonishing the brickwork.

It will be spring soon,

It will be spring soon-

And I, whose childhood

Is a forgotten boredom,

Feel like a child

Who comes on a scene

Of adult reconciling

And can understand nothing

But the unusual laughter

And starts to be happy.

The poem says far more about the poet's somewhat gloomy outlook than the voice of the thrush, however much the latter is 'astonishing the brickwork.' That the spring is coming soon seems more a forlorn hope for change than anything truly joyful. Well, such is Mr Larkin.