The April rain that's pelted
The early robin's head
For three gray days has threatened
To wash the brilliant red
Out of his chesty feathers;
Now damp, he swings a branch,
Bedraggled but determined
To laud the avalanche.
The April storm has settled
Within his croupy throat:
His open beak produces
Only the hoarsest note.
Off-key he tries his music:
Even his own wife squirms
At his half-squawking lyric
In praise of April worms.
Oh small wet bird, be patient.
The gray will turn to gold,
And you can sing your heart out when
The sun has cured your cold!