SONG-TIME.
FROM out the blossomed cherry-tops Sing, blithesome robin, chant and sing; With chirp, and trill, and magic-stops Win thou the listening ear of Spring!
For while thou lingerest in delight, An idle poet, with thy rhyme, The summer hours will take their flight And leave thee in a barren clime.
Not all the autumn's rustling gold, Nor sun, nor moon, nor star shall bring The jocund spirit which of old Made it an easy joy to sing!
So said a poet—having lost The precious time when he was young— Now wandering by the wintry coast With empty heart and silent tongue.