The Last Robin
Lyrics and Sonnets

by Ethelwyn Wetherald



TANGLED in stars and spirit-steeped in dew,
     The city worker to his desk returns,
     While ’mid the stony streets remembrance burns,
Like honeysuckle running through and through
A barren hedge.  He lifts his load anew,


     And carries it amid the thronging ferns
     And crowding leaves of memory, while yearns
Above him once again the open blue.

His letter-littered desk goes up in flowers;
     The world recedes, and backward dreamily


          Come days and nights, like jewels rare and few.
And while the consciousness of those bright hours
     Abides with him, we know him yet to be
          Tangled in stars and spirit-steeped in dew. [Page 188]