The Last Robin
Lyrics and Sonnets


by Ethelwyn Wetherald



 

COME, O SPRING!



COME, O Spring! Unpack thy leaves,
    Flood the boughs and flush the gloom;
Brush the cheek of him who grieves
    With a branch of apple-bloom.

Mock at care with all thy birds,

5

    Pierce despair with all they beams,
Write upon my heart the words
    For the music of thy streams. [Page 63]