 | Carol and Cadence |  |
THE ROBIN.
Autumn from tree to tree
Its tapestries of brown and gold and crimson weaves.
Who is't in each wood-run
That sings so cheerily?
Who is it flits and fleets among the mottled leaves,
When all that hath a voice is mute for Summer done?
Its tapestries of brown and gold and crimson weaves.
Who is't in each wood-run
That sings so cheerily?
Who is it flits and fleets among the mottled leaves,
When all that hath a voice is mute for Summer done?
Dear robin, it is thou,
That biddest us for sun and Summer passed away
Take heart and sorrow not;
For, though 'tis Autumn now
And Winter's at the door, from out its frost-tombs grey
Sweet Spring will rise again and Summer yet wax hot.
That biddest us for sun and Summer passed away
Take heart and sorrow not;
For, though 'tis Autumn now
And Winter's at the door, from out its frost-tombs grey
Sweet Spring will rise again and Summer yet wax hot.
Nay, with a graver note,
Thou mindest us that life is like the labouring year
And that, though Summer cease
And still each songbird's throat,
Yet, with the Autumn come, the end of toil is near,
When over-weathered earth beneath the snows hath peace.
Thou mindest us that life is like the labouring year
And that, though Summer cease
And still each songbird's throat,
Yet, with the Autumn come, the end of toil is near,
When over-weathered earth beneath the snows hath peace.
And what can better be?
No matter what of load and labour life have known,
Of travail and of woes,
When once the soul is free
Of stress and strife and lies at last beneath the stone,
All is forgot and sweet for ever is repose.
No matter what of load and labour life have known,
Of travail and of woes,
When once the soul is free
Of stress and strife and lies at last beneath the stone,
All is forgot and sweet for ever is repose.
| Carol and Cadence | |