Robin

There’s not a leaf on the vine where you swing
And the wind is chill and the sky is grey,
But all undaunted you flutter and sing,
“Ho, the first of May! Ho, the first of May!”
There’s never a hint of yesterday’s frost,
Of the hunger and cold and waiting long,
Never a plaint over what you have lost
Thrown into the notes of your happy song;
The gladness is pressed in your bosom red,
And the gloss is laid on your little head.
I thank you for singing, robin to-day,
For flaunting before me, jolly and bold,
Chirping, “Ho! Ho! do you know it is May,
Or are you so dull you have to be told?”