CXXVIII An Epitaph on a Robin-Redbreast
Tread lightly here, for here, ’tis said,
When piping winds are hush’d around,
A small note wakes from underground,
Where now his tiny bones are laid.
No more in lone or leafless groves,
With ruffled wing and faded breast,
His friendless, homeless spirit roves;
Gone to the world where birds are blest!
Where never cat glides o’er the green,
Or school-boy’s giant form is seen;
But love, and joy, and smiling Spring
Inspire their little souls to sing!
S. Rogers