OF A plaintive note, and long; 'Tis a note no human throat could sing, No harp with its dulcet golden string,— Nor lute, nor lyre with liquid ring, Is sweet as the robin's song. MUSIC, music with throb and swing, He sings for love of the season When the days grow warm and long, For the beautiful God-sent reason That his breast was born for song. Calling, calling so fresh and clear, Through the song-sweet days of May; Warbling there, and whistling here, He swells his voice on the drinking ear, On the great, wide, pulsing atmosphere Till his music drowns the day. He sings for love of the season When the days grow warm and long, For the beautiful God-sent reason That his breast was born for song. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CENSUS-TAKER by ROBERT FROST RHYME FOR A CHILD VIEWING A NAKED VENUS IN A PAINTING by ROBERT BROWNING BEDTIME by FRANCIS ROBERT ST. CLAIR ERSKINE THE HILL WIFE: HOUSE FEAR by ROBERT FROST MALEFACTORS by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN THE BRIDEGROOM TO HIS BRIDE by MARY ANN BROWNE FOUR EPISTLES: MIRACLE AT THE FEAST OF PENTECOST: 3 by JOHN BYROM PHILOXIPES AND POLICRITE; AN ESSAY TO AN HEROIC POEM: CANTO 1 by CHARLES COTTON |