The Last Robin
Lyrics and Sonnets

by Ethelwyn Wetherald



TO-DAY the earth has not a word to speak.
     The snow comes down as softly through the air
     As pitying heaven to a martyr’s prayer,
Or white grave roses to a bloodless cheek.
The footsteps of the snow, as white and meek


     As angel travelers, are everywhere—
     On fence and brier and up the forest stair,
And on the wind’s trail o’er the moorland bleak.

They tread the rugged road as tenderly
     As April venturing her first caress;


          They drown the old earth’s furrowed griefs and scars
Within the white foam of a soundless sea,
     And bring a deeper depth of quietness
          To graves asleep beneath the silent stars. [Page 193]