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Warden
robins going
out of the prison
I eat a late supper
Poemas sobre el tema: robin
Poemas sobre el tema «robin» en Poets.by.
Midsummer Morn
A tom-tom sun awakens day's jungle with heat beats
The moon was a white war canoe moored to the night
Morning stars scurry to cover like shaking hares fearful of the Great Yellow Hunter
Last night's tall hunchback fishing in a pool of raven's breasts is a green elm tree
Thin wings of grass pound helplessly against hard ground
And the robins are no longer afraid . . .
The Robin's Dawn Song
If you haven't heard the robin's dawn song
You're a poorer man than you ought to be.
Up early once, by a small factory
Alongside which an elm tree was growing
Vibrantly in one of its early springs
With about two hundred heart-shaped leaves
Green as if it had just invented them;
I heard and saw a robin in the tree
Emit I'll swear in one protracted chord
With not a one I could label discord,
A note for every new leaf on that tree,
As if each leaf issued another leaf
Of spiritual stuff, metallic as well;
Brilliantly shone, etched with one perfect word.
The Unfaithful April
I saw a robin last year,
I heard him fill his throat
High in the trembling elm tree
With note on gallant note.
So splendidly his red breast
Went flashing in the dew,
I thought beneath his glad wings
His heart had broken through.
I hear the robin this year,
His voice is sweet and strong,
But I can not give him welcome
Nor listen to his song.
How can he bear the new leaves
Around his last year's nest?
How can he sing with old wounds
Still red upon his breast?
Winter
Clouded with snow
The cold winds blow,
And shrill on leafless bough
The robin with its burning breast
Alone sings now.
The rayless sun,
Day's journey done,
Sheds its last ebbing light
On fields in leagues of beauty spread
Unearthly white.
Thick draws the dark,
And spark by spark,
The frost-fires kindle, and soon
Over that sea of frozen foam
Floats the white moon.
My Youth
My youth was my old age,
Weary and long;
It had too many cares
To think of song;
My moulting days all came
When I was young.
Now, in life's prime, my soul
Comes out in flower;
Late, as with Robin, comes
My singing power;
I was not born to joy
Till this late hour.
Robin Red Breast
Little Robin red breast,
I hear you sing your song.
I would love to have you put it into my little cage,
Into my little mouth.
False Dawn
My apple trees have blossomed in a night,
And pale green moonlight bathes their rose and white
With a strange wine that makes the pulses throb.
A sleepy robin now mistakes the light,
And his soft doubting note sounds like a sob
Voicing the thought that draws my heart-strings tight.
What Life could give you is not yours to take
Nor mine to give--and yet to-night I wake
Remembering your giving. But the note
Of that moon-haunted robin must not shake
My calm belief that you--austere, remote--
Need nothing I can ever mar or make.
Japanese Hokku 7
On the flowering twig,
Lo! the robin is singing.
It must be spring.
Winter Song
Rain and wind, and wind and rain.
Will the Summer come again?
Rain on houses, on the street,
Wetting all the people’s feet.
Though they run with might and main.
Rain and wind, and wind and rain.
Snow and sleet, and sleet and snow.
Will the Winter never go?
What do beggar children do
With no fire to cuddle to,
P’raps with nowhere warm to go?
Snow and sleet, and sleet and snow.
Hail and ice, and ice and hail,
Water frozen in the pail.
See the robins, brown and red,
They are waiting to be fed.
March
I see the snow-drops flutter
Their white wings in the gale.
I hear the robin utter
On high his gallant tale.
Look where the rash wind chases
With clouds the climbing sun !
The day makes merry faces —
Gaily her gray steeds run.
The bare brown trees are swinging,
The curled waves roll and rail.
Ho ! — madcap Spring comes singing
On frosty Winter's trail!
Home
A burst of sudden wings at dawn,
Faint voices in a dreamy noon,
Evenings of mist and murmurings,
And nights with rainbows of the moon.
And through these things a wood-way dim,
And waters dim, and slow sheep seen
On uphill paths that wind away
Through summer sounds and harvest green.
This is a song a robin sang
This morning on a broken tree,
It was about the little fields
That call across the world to me.