POETRY.
A ROBIN.
WHAT art thou doing there, Robin, sweet Robin, On yonder bough so bare, Singing, or sobbing ?
Through the long summer days Heard wert thou rarely : Lark, thrush, and nightingale Outsung thee fairly.
Now when lark, thrush, and all Silence are keeping ; Skies like a leaden pall ; Mist undercreeping ; Where the dark yew its shade Over churchyards is flinging, Thou sittest and singest,— Oh ! what art thou singing ?
It is not of love ; Love needs one to hear it ; It is not of life ; Death and tombs are too near it.
And it is not in hope With the long days before us, With the limitless scope, And the woods sweet in chorus.
But when all else is still, Or winds only are sighing, Leaves falling around thee Decaying and dying, When some fire yet unknown In thy warm heart is throbbing, Thou sittest and singest there, Robin, sweet Robin ; Gay of heart, cheerily, Chiding our sadness ; But oh ! there are tears in thee, Bird, in thy gladness. A. G. B..
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