The First Robin | A Poem by Eugene Secor

The First Robin (1911)

by Eugene Secor

The larch's topmost twig is bent—

A cradle lent

To aid his musical intent—

And lusty is his song.

Though crisp the lucent air, the note

From out his throat

Is for despair an antidote,

Though winter's tarried long.

Brave prophet of a better day,

I love thy lay,

Thou see'st the greenery of May

While yet the trees are bare.

Thy hope inspires my heart to sing,

Gives faith sure wing,

Because thy prophecy of spring

Rebukes the chilly air.

Thou art the vanguard of a host

Who'll charge the ghost

Of Winter with a song almost

Before his soul has passed.

Now, if he flings his darts at me

I'll think of thee

And all thy comrades soon to be,

And victory forecast.