Last Robin

“He’s here! He’s here!” The children shrill
On tiptoe at my window sill;
And point excitedly across
The snow-patched lawn,
Imploring me to see
Spring’s first prophetic songster
Where he’s gone, exploring hopefully,
Beneath our silver maple tree.
They thrill at sight
Of the first robin of the spring.
I’m still fondly remembering
That last reluctant redbreast of the fall,
Who lingered near my garden wall
All of one autumn afternoon,
To mourn the summer
That had died too soon;
And who, although sheared of his song,
Before lifting his wings made strong
By that mysterious, ancient call,
Uttered a muted note of hope
That was a lovely, singing thing,
Sustaining me all winter long
With promise of this shining spring!