Poems (Sharpless)/The First Robin

by Frances M. Sharpless

THE FIRST ROBIN

The winds blow keen thro' shivering trees,
   And skies are gray:
The snow-drifts all among the bare brown leas
   Unmelted lay;
We heed not passing signs like these,
   But blithely say:
The robin comes, the robin comes;
The Spring will follow for the robin comes.

His first shy note, so sweet, so low,
   Say, do you hear,
Ye streams? that restless 'neath the ice and snow
   Throb far and near,
And angrily aside your fetters throw
   To breathe the air?
The robin comes, the robin comes;
Spring soon shall follow for the robin comes.

A deeper blue burns in the sky,
   And a weird thrill
Stirs thro' the woods, tho' buried lie
   The fern roots still;
Yet Spring's sweet promise hovers nigh,
   Hope to fulfil:
The robin comes, the robin comes;
Soon Spring will follow for the robin comes.

Blow keen and far, thou frosty wind:
   To rooms of pain
Carry thy message, that the sad may find
   Fresh strength again,
Knowing the Winter shall be left behind
   And Summer reign:
The robin comes, the robin comes;
Soon Spring shall follow for the robin comes.