Where robins walked with mincing steps And cocked a knowing head The autumn blooms are withered And the summer flowers are dead. The fruit they stole audaciously Hangs dry on flaccid stem, A tattered fringe of summer On autumn's dusty hem. Their saucy eyes no longer peer In greed and mock affright From thickets where my yellow plums Reflect the golden light. Their little bills, dyed crimson In pilfered strawberry blood, No longer point reproachful words Addressed to "Robin Hood." I walk unchallenged where of late From hedge and leafy bower With chatter shrill, they loud denied My right to fruit or flower. But somehow, I am lonesome; I wish the rascals back, To pillage and to plunder To swagger and to sack! And when the northern springtime Returns with tardy grace She'll read the warmest welcome To robins in my face. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SACHEM OF THE CLOUDS (A THANKSGIVING LEGEND) by ROBERT FROST I WANT TO LIVE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON LA RONDE DU DIABLE by AMY LOWELL THE LAST JUDGMENT by JOHN CROWE RANSOM ELEGY: THE GHOST WHOSE LIPS WERE WARM; FOR GEOFFREY GORER by EDITH SITWELL |