The Last Robin
Lyrics and Sonnets

by Ethelwyn Wetherald



THE violet’s life is in the sheltering glade.
    The rosebud, forced to meet admiring eyes,
In many-leaved withdrawal is arrayed;
    ’Tis reticence in which her beauty lies.

Thou art a rose, my child. Enchantingly


    She veils herself, e’en from the eye of morn,
For, stripped of all her soft defences, she
    Is but a mark for pity and for scorn. [Page 50]