THE ROBIN

Thomas Hardy 1840-1928

When up aloft

I fly and fly,

I see in pools

The shining sky,

And a happy bird

Am I, am I!

When I descend

Towards their brink

I stand, and look,

And stoop, and drink,

And bathe my wings,

And chink and prink.

When winter frost

Makes earth as steel

I search and search

But find no meal,

And most unhappy

Then I feel.

But when it lasts,

And snows still fall,

I get to feel

No grief at all,

For I turn to a cold stiff

Feathery ball!

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