Classic Poem

Robin to the bare bough clinging,
What can this blithe music mean?
Like a hidden fount, thy singing
Seems to clothe the woods with green.

Rest nor roof from cold nor danger
Here rewards thy faithful stay;
Sing'st thou, little homeless stranger,
For the crumbs we strewed to-day?

Other birds have fled this dun light,
Soaring on to regions bright,
Singing in the richest sunlight,
Singing 'neath the starry night;

Hiding in the broad-leafed shadows
Of the southern woods at noon,
Filling all the flower-starred meadows
With the melodies of June.

Knowest thou the woods have voices,
Which like light the heart unfold,
Till it trembles and rejoices,
Growing deep that joy to hold;

Pouring music like a river,
Many-toned and deep and strong,—
Tones by which, like childhood's, quiver
Thy few notes of simple song.

Then the “crimson-tippèd” thing,
Like a daisy among birds,
With a quiet glee did sing
Songs condensèd thus in words:—

“Well I know the joyous mazes
Of the songs so full and fine:
Very faint would be God's praises
Sounded by no voice but mine.

“Yet the little child's sweet laughter
Wakes it no responsive smile,—
Though the poet singeth after,
And the angels all the while?

“What I sing I cannot measure,
Why I sing I cannot say;
But I know a well of pleasure
Springeth in my heart all day.”

So I learned that crumbs are able
Lowly hearts to fill with song,—
Crumbs from off a festal table
Lowly hearts will join ere long.

He who winter days hath given,
With the snows gives snow-drops birth;
And while angels sing in heaven,
God hears robins sing on earth.

Only keep thee on the wing,
Music dieth in the dust;
Nothing that but creeps can sing,
All hearts that soar heavenward must.