The morning breaks on banks of snow;
The dawn light wakes the world below.
The dancing flakes flit to and fro;
The bare branch shakes as sharp winds blow.

By field, still fraught from autumn plough,
The winter wrought the lifeless bough.
With snowcap caught on mountain brow,
The days, drawn short, are shortest now.

But, up in the highest treetop,
With carefree staccato skip-hop,
A darting, dashing, red-bib-flashing
Serenader of stormy weather
Trims each syncopating feather,
The hushed-sound, snow-bound world left on hold.

And, greeting the chilly morning,
Imbued with the spell of dawning,
A rousing, thrilling, heartfelt trilling
Engages the gloomy meadow
With airs, sibilant and mellow;
A minstrel bringing carols of old.

When the days are grown short and the spirit is low,
Then the Robin bids the dark days go!
When the shadows hold fast and the nights are grown long,
Then the Robin scalds the darkness with song.

As the winter must come, and the summer must end,
So the Robin knows what seasons send;
And though hardship must fall, still the dark days will end,
And the Robin owes that heartache shall mend,
Then, let every vexed soul venture love, hope and peace!