The Last Robin
Lyrics and Sonnets

by Ethelwyn Wetherald



LEAFLESS April, chased by light,
    Chased by dark and full of laughter,
Stays a moment in her flight
    Where the warmest breezes waft her,
By the meadow brook to lean,


    Or where winter rye is growing,
Showing in a lovelier green
    Where her wayward steps are going.

Blithesome April, brown and warm,
    Showing slimness through her tatters,


Chased by sun or chased by storm—
    Not a whit to her it matters.
Swiftly through the violet bed
    Down to where the stream is flooding,
Light she flits—and round her head


    See the orchard branches budding! [Page 64]