The Last Robin
Lyrics and Sonnets

by Ethelwyn Wetherald



BREATHER of hope upon the face that grieves,
     Redd’ner of paleness, mocker at despair,
     Playground of happy wings that upward fare,
Lover of violets and sodden leaves,
Of roses running to the cottage eaves,


     And hay-fields sweet’ning in the sunny glare;
     Companion of he heart that knows no care,
And of the budding boughs and bursting sheaves;

Though armed with weapons of the icy north,
     Or red with dropping leaves, or fair with flakes,


          Or scorched with sun, or wistful in the rain,
Out of my cell your spirit calls me forth,
     Out to the splendid open, where the aches
          And hurts of life are bathed and healed again. [Page 179]