Mathilde Blind

The Robin Redbreast

The year's grown songless! No glad pipings thrill
  The hedge-row elms, whose wind-worn branches shower
  Their leaves on the sere grass, where some late flower
In golden chalice hoards the sunlight still.
Our summer guests, whose raptures used to fill
  Each apple-blossomed garth and honeyed bower,
  Have in adversity's inclement hour
Abandoned us to bleak November's chill.

But hearken! Yonder russet bird among
  The crimson clusters of the homely thorn
Still bubbles o'er with little rills of song--
A blending of sweet hope and resignation:
  Even so, when life of love and youth is shorn,
One friend becomes its last, best consolation.