The Last Robin
Lyrics and Sonnets

by Ethelwyn Wetherald



LOVE has a thousand phases.  Oftentimes
     For very joy of her own life she weeps;
     Of like a timid wistful child she creeps
To sheltering arms; or like a spirit climbs
 The white heights scaled by poets in their rhymes—


     Imagination’s lone and splendid steeps—
     Or drifts with idle oar upon the deeps
Of her own soul to undiscovered climes.

Here is the rapture of the dying saint,
     The exultation of the mother when


          Upon her breast her first-born faintly stirs
For the first time; and every morn doth paint
     Upon each rock and tree and stream and glen
          Some inextinguishable look of hers. [Page 182]