SING on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough, <br />Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain, <br />See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, <br />At thy blythe carol, clears his furrowed brow. <br /> <br /> <br />So in lone Poverty's dominion drear, <br />Sits meek Content with light, unanxious heart; <br />Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, <br />Nor asks if they bring ought to hope or fear. <br /> <br /> <br />I thank thee, Author of this opening day! <br />Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies! <br />Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys— <br />What wealth could never give nor take away! <br /> <br /> <br />Yet come, thou child of poverty and care, <br />The mite high heav'n bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll share.<br /><br />Robert Burns<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-on-the-author-s-birthday/
