My robins are gone— The last one has flown; With a pang in my breast I look into the nest And know I’m forever alone. The night will come in thro’ the crimsoning west, Repeating that lesson of pain— “The robin that once has flown out of the nest Seeks never its shelter again.” My robins are gone, etc. O, glad was my heart with its fullness of love When fondly I cared for them all, But now I’m alone, in the shadowy grove, And they are too far for recall. My robins are gone, etc. The world was so wide, and the skies were so blue, They tempted my darlings away; In the bright, dewy morning so buoyant they flew, Nor dreamed of the noon-heat of day. My robins are gone, etc. I’ll stay by the lonely, embowered, old nest— Some stars will beam down thro’ the night; I’ll hush my heart’s cry with a “God knoweth best,” And wait for the dawn of the light. Tho’ my robins are gone, Tho’ the last one has flown, They’ll think of the tree That is sheltering me,— They’ll be to me ever my own. Winterbloom. Oh! beautiful winterbloom, why did you tarry? O, why in Spring’s glory of budding and bloom, Were hidden your jewels, wee, golden and starry, To open them now, in November’s chill gloom? The crocuses first heard the warm breezes calling, The dandelions glowed in their emerald sea And lilies, sun-kissed, in the lakelets were lolling— All Flora’s enchantments were beckoning thee. When June, in soft airs, swung her rose-freighted censer, And dew gems were set with the buttercup’s gold—The annual bloom, growing brighter and denser— Why still, from the summer, your beauty withhold? “When Spring in her gladness poured beauty around you, And joy bells rang with most musical tone, When opulent Summer with riches had crowned you, My coming had then been unheeded, unknown. Now flowers of springtime and summer have left you, The winter’s foreclosure has shadowed the home— Of the last clinging leaves the cold winds have bereft you— As a friend in Adversity, now I am come.” The Old Home. The empty hammock, in the grove, The playful breeze is swinging— Wild birds, of varied note and plume, In Babel jargon singing, Come boldly near my silent door, And e’en the woodland thrushes Pour forth for me, their floods of song, In sweet, melodious gushes. And nearer still, the squirrels come, Among the walnuts leaping, And gather in their winter stores Without the toil of reaping.— The tennis plot is overgrown With long, untrodden grasses— Above it hangs, from unpruned boughs, Their foliage wealth in masses.