My garden robin in the Spring <br />Was rapturous with glee, <br />And followed me with wistful wing <br />From pear to apple tree; <br />His melodies the summer long <br />He carolled with delight, <br />As if he could with jewelled song <br />Find favour in my sight. <br /> <br />And now that Autumn's in the air <br />He's singing singing still, <br />And yet somehow I cannot bear <br />The frenzy of his bill; <br />The keen wind ruffs his ruddy breast <br />As to bare boughs he clings; <br />The sun is sullen in the West <br />Yet still he sings and sings. <br /> <br />Soon, soon the legions of the snow <br />Will pitch their tents again, <br />And round my window-sill I know <br />He'll call for crumbs in vein; <br />The pulsing passion of his throat <br />Has hint of Winter woe; <br />The piercing sweetness of his note <br />entreats me not to go. <br /> <br />In vein, in vain, Oh valiant one, <br />You sing to bid me stay! <br />For all my life is in the sun <br />And I must fly away. <br />yet by no gold or orange glow <br />Will I be comforted, <br />Seeing blood-bright in bitter snow - <br /> A robin dead.<br /><br />Robert William Service<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poor-cock-robin/
