ON the half-frozen lawn, where the early grass was springing,
In the sunny days just over, and where now the frost is lying,
I hear a happy chorus of little voices singing,
A hopeful, cheery call and a hopefuller replying.
’Tis the bluebird and the robin,—what brings them back so early
From the sunny southern meadows, and the fields of honeyed clover,
From the stately tall magnolias, hung with blossoms sweet and pearly,
And the starry yellow jasmine which the wood-bee hovers over?
And now that they have come, beguiled and led a-straying
By Mother Nature, who would seem to joy in such deceiving,
How can they sing so blithely, with frost and famine playing,
As if the world were never meant to be a place for grieving?
What is the secret of the hope that bears them up so bravely
In the shelterless unfed to-day, the unprovided morrow?
Oh, would that I might learn it,—I who sit here looking gravely
With an apprehensive shiver for the shape of coming sorrow!
Say, bluebird, and say, robin? They answer but by singing,
As with a whirr of fluttering wings the small shapes dart and fly;
But my sadness rises with them, and all my cares seem winging,
And leaving me as glad as they, but I cannot tell you why.