MY old Welsh neighbor over the way <br />Crept slowly out in the sun of spring, <br />Pushed from her ears the locks of gray, <br />And listened to hear the robin sing. <br /> <br />Her grandson, playing at marbles, stopped, <br />And, cruel in sport as boys will be, <br />Tossed a stone at the bird, who hopped <br />From bough to bough in the apple-tree. <br /> <br />'Nay!' said the grandmother; 'have you not heard, <br />My poor, bad boy! of the fiery pit, <br />And how, drop by drop, this merciful bird <br />Carries the water that quenches it? <br /> <br />'He brings cool dew in his little bill, <br />And lets it fall on the souls of sin <br />You can see the mark on his red breast still <br />Of fires that scorch as he drops it in. <br /> <br />'My poor Bron rhuddyn! my breast-burned bird, <br />Singing so sweetly from limb to limb, <br />Very dear to the heart of Our Lord <br />Is he who pities the lost like Him!' <br /> <br />'Amen!' I said to the beautiful myth; <br />'Sing, bird of God, in my heart as well: <br />Each good thought is a drop wherewith <br />To cool and lessen the fires of hell. <br /> <br />'Prayers of love like rain-drops fall, <br />Tears of pity are cooling dew, <br />And dear to the heart of Our Lord are all <br />Who suffer like Him in the good they do! '<br /><br />John Greenleaf Whittier<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-robin-7/
