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.