THE FIRST ROBIN.
HARK! Is it spring?
I waked, and heard a robin sing,—
Only a shower of silvery notes, that dropped
In tremulous outpouring, and then stopped;
While from the window nigh
I saw the little singer flitting by,
As scorning to retreat,
Although the sullen winds that moaned and beat,
Had frozen the tears of morning, as they fell, to sleet.
With steadfast claim,
This messenger of gladness came
To welcome with joy the tardy spring;
And, from the winter's cold farewell to bring
One measure of delight;
Foretelling miracles of sound and sight;
Of south winds blowing strong,
When the white apple-blossoms drift along,
And for this one faint lay, the whole world steeped in song.
O Robin! You
In your belief are strong and true;
By storms undaunted, with your notes of cheer,
You sing, and we grow blither as we hear;
Till, echoing your content,
With larger faith, we lift our heads low bent,
And by past sorrows know
What may have seemed life's desolating snow,
Only prepares the soul for summer's flowers to grow.
—Boston Transcript