TO A ROBIN IN DECEMBER

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.