The Robin
A bird settles lightly on the bough
Red breast proud and challenging:
Look at me, I am here. I obey, strangely
Perturbed; a hoped for moment yet,
Once arrived, disturbing, full of portents,
Messages I cannot understand.
The Robin sits lightly on the perch, its
Song full of laughter, teasing me;
Its feather are not ruffled, its chirping
No alarm to stay clear, or leave me be,
More invitation to sing together.
Oh! Robin, Robin Redbreast, what do
You say to me? The snow lies deep,
Dazzling contrast to your brazen breast
Now become a question: warning or invitation?
The snow is cold, and seeps into my soul,
Bringing doubt and despair, conviction
That fatal destiny awaits me.
“Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the
Good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt.”
Thus the Bard sees into my soul. And I wait.
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