The Last Robin
Lyrics and Sonnets

by Ethelwyn Wetherald



WHEN October’s shining arms are drooping,
    Burdened with the gold of all her winnings,
Oft I think of April, gleaming, glinting,
    On a million little green beginnings.

Or within the city’s dust and clamor


    Fancy spins a web, and all her spinnings
Are of bending branch and running water
    And a sward of little green beginnings.

Spring and springtime hopes are with us always.
    E’en the heart grown aged in its sinnings


Holds till death the budding boughs of promise,
    With their myriad little fair beginnings. [Page 18]