The Last Robin
Lyrics and Sonnets


by Ethelwyn Wetherald



 

THE HUMMING-BIRD.



AGAINST my window-pane
    He plunges at a mass
Of buds—and strikes in vain
    The intervening glass.

O sprite of wings and fire

5

    Outstretching eagerly,
My soul, with like desire
    To probe thy mystery,

Comes close as breast to bloom,
    As bud to hot heart-beat,

10

And gains no inner room,
    And drains no hidden sweet. [Page 84]