The Robin and the Flower
by Charles A. Myall
A Robin once sat in the bright winter's sun,
A foolish red robin was he,
For he sang a sweet song that springtime had come
When the day was as cold as could be.
So gay was his song of the warmth of the hour,
So merrily babbled the sound,
That it stole through the dream of a dear little flower
Who was slumbering under the ground.
The sleeper awakened, soft lifted the sod
And harkened the robin's sweet song,
Full glad was her heart and thankful to God
That winter so quickly had gone.
The robin still sang and the dear little flower
Unfolded her petals of pink: -
"I'll hold up my chalice," she said, "for a shower
That from me my robin may drink."
The singer flew quickly to welcome his love, -
His love that was faltering low: -
Oh, where was the warmth from the heaven above?
Instead of a shower there was snow.
Then robin quick covered her o'er with his wing,
"Don't leave me, I love you," he cried:
And he kissed her so tenderly, poor little thing,
But the blossom, his loved one, had died.
Red robin still sits in the bright winter's sun,
But a sorrowing robin is he;
No longer he sings that the springtime has come
When the day is as cold as can be.