TO A ROBIN

I heard thee, joyous votary, Pour forth thy heart in one Sweet simple strain of melody To greet the rising sun, When he across the morning’s verge his first faint flare had flung And found the crimson of thy breast the whisp’ring leaves among, In thine own tree Which sheltered thee, Thy mate, thy nest, thy young.

I marked thee, sorrow’s votary, When in the noon of day Young vandals stormed thy sacred tree And bore thine all away; The notes of grief that rent thy breast touched kindred chords in mine, For memories of other days, though slumbering still confine In mine own heart The bitter smart Of sorrow such as thine. I hear thee now, sweet votary, Beside thy ruined nest, Lift up thy flood of melody Against the crimsoned west, Forgetful of all else in this, thy one sweet joyous strain. I thank thee for this ecstasy of my remembered pain; Thou liftest up My sorrow’s cup To sweeten it again.