The Last Robin
Lyrics and Sonnets


by Ethelwyn Wetherald



 

THE HAY FIELD.



WITH slender arms outstretching in the sun
     The grass lies dead;
The wind walks tenderly and stirs not one
     Frail fallen head.

Of baby creepings through the April day

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     Where streamlets wend,
Of child-like dancing on the breezes of May,
     This is the end.

No more these tiny forms are bathed in dew,
     No more they reach

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To hold with leaves that shade them from the blue
     A whispered speech.

No more they part their arms and wreathe them close
     Again, to shield
Some love-full little nest—a dainty house

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     Hid in a field. [Page 83]

For them no more splendor of the storm,
     The fair delights
Of moon and star-shine, glimmering faint and warm
     On summer nights.

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Their little lives they yield in summer death,
     And frequently
Across the field bereaved their dying breath
     Is brought to me. [Page 84]