To A Robin In December

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Title:     To A Robin In December
Author: John Presland [More Titles by Presland]

In Paradise there is no sweeter song
Than that thin music that the robin makes
On short December afternoons, and takes
The winter woods, with utterance frail, yet strong;
Till all the barren fields, and ruined brakes,
The flowerless gardens, and the hedges bare
Dream of the spring, and all the rainy air
Seems soft and mellow as the summer lakes.

More precious than the treasures of the East,
(Guarded by silver-footed antelope,)
Or all the nightingales that haunt the grove
Of Persian gardens; silver pipe of hope!
That Nature gives us when her gifts are least,
Sing to our hearts, oh, little voice of love.

[The end]
John Presland's poem: To A Robin In December

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