Robin on a leafless bough, Lord in Heaven, how he sings! Now cold Winter's cruel Wind Makes playmates of poor, dead things. How he sings for joy this morn! How his breast doth pant and glow! Look you how he stands and sings, Half-way up his legs in snow! If these crumbs of bread were pearls, And I had no bread at home, He should have them for that song; Pretty Robin Redbreast, Come. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...GRACE FOR CHILDREN by ROBERT HERRICK THE DARK HILLS by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON DRUG STORE by JOHN VAN ALSTYN WEAVER THE WILD DUCK'S NEST by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH SEEING HIS OWN PICTURE by PHILIP AYRES |