The Last Robin
Lyrics and Sonnets

by Ethelwyn Wetherald



WHEN all the winds of life were dull and tame
     She looked out where her bed of roses burned,
     And saw that whether each red bud was turned
Down to the arid earth from which it came,
Or up to Him who shaped its lovely frame,


     The infinite perfection of it yearned
     To her, because in her the rose discerned
A life of fragrance and a soul of flame.

Ah, weary heart, thou art thyself a rose!
     Perfection holds thee in her clinging hand


          And whispers to thee all her sweet desire.
Faint not!  The most monotonous wind that blows
     Shall waft thy fragrance through a bloomless land
          And fan thy dulling flame to deeper fire. [Page 173]