The Last Robin
Lyrics and Sonnets


by Ethelwyn Wetherald



 

UNHEARD NIAGARAS.



WE live among unheard Niagaras.
The force that pushes up the meadow grass,
That swells to ampler roundness ripening fruit,
That lifts the brier rose, were it not mute,
Would thunder o’er the green earth’s sunlit tracts

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More loudly than a myriad cataracts. [Page 132]