When in the wintry woods you hear the note <br />Of some small robin piping his delight <br />Because the noonday sunshine warm and bright <br />Melts the sweet music from his tiny throat, <br />Say not with scorn, 'Why doth the silly bird <br />Twitter and chirrup, when the jubilant cries <br />With which the Lark scales the blue vaulted skies <br />Beyond his golden corn-field scarce are heard?' <br />The God who bade His creatures all rejoice <br />Amid the thunderous music of the spheres, <br />Gives heed to every soul that speaks—and hears, <br />Well pleas'd, the little Redbreast's thankful voice. <br />Therefore sing I—and these my feeble lays <br />Join to the universal hymn of Praise.<br /><br />Frances Anne Kemble<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-91/
