A robin perched on a maple-top
Had sung for hours with never a stop,
Over and over, clear and strong,
A jubilant solo of prideful song,
Over and over, the morning long.

I went to the window. "Bird," I said,
"It's fine to be proud, but you've lost your head.
There've been springtimes before,
And a tree, and a nest,
A lady bird sitting, and all the rest;
It's as old as the hills."
                          

But he stuck out his chest
And sang all the louder, the impudent thing:
             Not my tree!
             Not my bough!
             Not my mate!
             Not my nest!
             Not my spring!


This poem is in the public domain.