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WATCHING FOR THE ROBINS
Snow along the hillsides lingers.
Raw and frosty is the air,
Dead the grass along the meadows,
And the branches still are bare;
Yet we often pause to listen,
And we fancy that we hear
Robins to each other calling,
Piping merrily ad clear.
Here and there we’re quickly peering
For the harbingers of spring,
Birds that brave the northern breezes
While remains the winter’s sting;
But though eagerly we listen,
And although our eyes we strain,
There’s no sound of robin piping,
There is heard no glad refrain.
It was just an idle fancy
That was born of fond desire
For the music that in springtime
Comes from nature’s feathered choir,
For we weary of the winter
Long before its days are spent,
And we yearn for song and sunshine
And the blossoms redolent
It was just a foolish fancy
That was given sudden play,
For the robins still are dwelling
In the southland far away.
And the snow is on our hillsides,
Raw and frosty is the air,
Dead the grass along the meadows,
And the branches still are bare.
But the winter days are passing,
And the sun now northward swings,
Bringing life t bud and blossom,
Long ‘neath nature’s coverings,
Springtime soon again will gladden
All these scenes now desolate—
We are watching for the robins,
And we won’t have long to wait!
[Assumed, 1900]
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