Flame-throated robin on the topmost bough Of the leafless oak, what singest thou? Hark! he telleth how— ’Spring is coming now; Spring is coming now. Now ruddy are the elm-tops against the blue sky, The pale larch donneth her jewelry; Red fir and black fir sigh, And I am lamenting the year gone by. The bushes where I nested are all cut down, They are felling the tall trees one by one, And my mate is dead and gone, In the winter she died and left me lone. She lay in the thicket where I fear to go; For when the March-winds after the snow The leaves away did blow, She was not there, and my heart is woe: And sad is my song, when I begin to sing, As I sit in the sunshine this merry spring: Like a withered leaf I cling To the white oak-bough, while the wood doth ring. Spring is coming now, the sun again is gay; Each day like a last spring’s happy day.’— Thus sang he; then from his spray He saw me listening and flew away.
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