'RETURN, return!' the unheard cry
Of robins in the upper sky,
As by and long this barren coast,
In March comes up the southern host.

Low-anchored in the tangled swale
I mark them slant along the gale,
At speed, with every feather set
For some more distant harbor yet.

Around me is the mellow lisp
Of bluebirds warbling, and the crisp
Chick! of the sparrow, and the cheer
Of homing robins harbored here.

No forward aspen-leaf or oak
Has through his leathern jacket broke;
The grass puts up a doubtful wing;
The hazel censers coldly swing.

But maple-buds, new fashionèd
On every stem, are tipped with red.
Green, saffern-flushing osiers glow
Above the wakened waters' flow.

Year in, year out, the fire of spring
Burns through its ashen covering,
Bursts up in flower and scent and song,
And drives the laggard March along.

Year after year the birds will fly
Along this same gray, mortal sky.
Praise God I see them and can say,
Another year, another day!