The Last Robin
Lyrics and Sonnets

by Ethelwyn Wetherald



THE blind man at his window bars
     Stands in the morning dewy dim;
The pearly-mantled dawn, the stars
     That wait for it, are naught to him.

And naught to his unseeing eyes


     The brownness of a sunny plain,
Where worn and drowsy August lies,
     And wakens but to sleep again.

And naught to him a greening slope,
     That yearns up to the height above,


And naught the leaves of May that ope
     As softly as the eyes of love.

And naught to him the branching aisles,
     Athrong with woodland worshippers,
And naught the fields where summer smiles


     Among her sunburned laborers. [Page 145]

The way trailing streamlet goes,
     The barefoot grasses on its brim,
The dew a flower cup o’erflows
     With silent joy, are hid from him.


To him no breath of nature calls;
     Upon his desk his work is laid;
He looks up at the dingy walls,
     And listens to the voice of Trade. [Page 146]