A Poet's Harvest Home Being One Hundred Short Poems: By William Bell Scott ... With an Aftermath of Twenty Short Poems |
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THE ROBIN.
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A Poet's Harvest Home | ||
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THE ROBIN.
Crumbs for the robin; well he knew
The click of that old garden gate,
Among the leaves he somewhere flew,
Nor came to breakfast ever late.
The click of that old garden gate,
Among the leaves he somewhere flew,
Nor came to breakfast ever late.
From twig to twig he ventures near,
With sidelong bright dark eye he comes,
Not for the poems but the crumbs:
We take good care he need not fear.
With sidelong bright dark eye he comes,
Not for the poems but the crumbs:
We take good care he need not fear.
Is that the garden gate again?
Comes the maid to gather peas?
It is the gardener, well-known swain:
Our robin likes old friends like these.
Comes the maid to gather peas?
It is the gardener, well-known swain:
Our robin likes old friends like these.
But hark! that click once more, we see
A caller feathered for the day,
He knows as well, it seems, as we
The time is come to fly away.
A caller feathered for the day,
He knows as well, it seems, as we
The time is come to fly away.
A Poet's Harvest Home | ||