The Last Robin
Lyrics and Sonnets


by Ethelwyn Wetherald



 

THE DOOR OF SPRING.



HOW shall we open the door of Spring
     That Winter is holding wearily shut?
          Though winds are calling and waters brawling,
          And snow decaying and light delaying,
     Yet will it not move in its yielding rut

5

And back on its flowery hinges swing,
               Till wings are flapping
               And woodpeckers tapping
               With sharp, clear rapping
                    At the door of Spring.

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How shall we fasten the door of Spring
     Wide, so wide that it cannot close?
          Though buds are filling and frogs are trilling,
          And violets breaking and grass awaking,
     Yet doubtfully back and forth it blows

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Till come the birds, and the woodlands ring
               With sharp beak stammer—
               The sudden clamor
               Of the woodpecker’s hammer
                    At the door of Spring.
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