The year's grown songless! No glad pipings thrill <br />The hedge-row elms, whose wind-worn branches shower <br />Their leaves on the sere grass, where some late flower <br />In golden chalice hoards the sunlight still. <br />Our summer guests, whose raptures used to fill <br />Each apple-blossomed garth and honeyed bower, <br />Have in adversity's inclement hour <br />Abandoned us to bleak November's chill. <br /> <br />But hearken! Yonder russet bird among <br />The crimson clusters of the homely thorn <br />Still bubbles o'er with little rills of song-- <br />A blending of sweet hope and resignation: <br />Even so, when life of love and youth is shorn, <br />One friend becomes its last, best consolation.<br /><br />Mathilde Blind<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-robin-redbreast/