The Last Robin
Lyrics and Sonnets


by Ethelwyn Wetherald



 

THE PRAIRIE.



CLOTHED in the virginal green of early spring,
     Or, later, fragrant with her miles of sweet
     Wild roses flushing in the summer heat,
Or mantled in a shining robe a king
Might wear when golden-rod is flowering,

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     Or thrilled responsive to the dancing feet
     Of little laughing rains, or feeling fleet
Yet strong—how strong!—the wind’s unwearied wing;

Whate’er her garb, the prairie speaks of love—
     Love’s virginal beginnings, rosy moods,

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          Her golden joys and happy, happy tears.
The mighty wing that tireless sweeps above
     Her summer sweets and winter solitudes
          Is weariless as love’s unending years. [Page 169]