Robin, perched on the budding bough,
Swings and sings thro' the April day.
The winds shriek loud, and the clouds hang low,—
But what cares he for their surly way?
The sun may hide, and the day grow dim,
And the noisy drops may fall amain;
Little he recks their eager vim,
Caroling all thro' the springtime rain.
What is the theme in the little breast,
Throbbing, bursting with joy complete?
The summer glory, a warm, wee nest
With little nestlings and home-love, sweet.
Back of thy piping, the song divine,—
Back of thy trusting, the Father's care,
Oh, it were sweet! a faith like thine,
Robin, though skies be dark or fair.
Thou canst be happy, too, my heart:
Turn from the shadow and gloom, to see
Thyself, perfected in every part.
Eternal joy is for all,— and thee.
Now in the Father-heart a-near,
Waiteth a home, both fair and fine;
Freed from every bond of fear,
Lift thy voice in the song divine.
