Beautiful Robin! With Thy Feathers Red Contrasting Sweetly With The Soft Green Tree, Making Thy Little Flights As Thou Art Led By Things That Tempt A Simple One Like Thee - I Would That Thou Couldst Warble Me To Tears As Lightly As The Birds Of Other Years. Idly To Lie Beneath An April Sun, Pressing The Perfume From The Tender Grass; To Watch A Joyous Rivulet Leap On With The Clear Tinkle Of A Music Glass, And As I Saw The Early Robin Pass, To Hear Him Thro' His Little Compass Run - Hath Been A Joy That I Shall No More Know Before I To My Better Portion Go.