The Last Robin
Lyrics and Sonnets


by Ethelwyn Wetherald



 

IN AUGUST.



NOW when the grove is stifled to the core,
     And all the parchèd grass is summer-killed,
     I think of vehement March, and how he filled
These arid roadsides with a murmurous pour
Of rushing streams from an exhaustless store.

5

     This breathless air, to tropic slumber stilled,
     Recalls those early passionate winds that thrilled
The spirit, blending with the water’s roar.

Just as in rich and dusty-leavèd age
     The soul goes back to brood on swelling buds

10

          Of hope, desire and dream, in childhood’s clime,
So I turn backward to the spring-lit page,
     And hear with freshening heart the deep-voiced floods
          That to the winds give their melodious rhyme. [Page 189]