The robin has begun his early song,
His twitterings on the leafless locust bough;
From hour to hour his notes are loud and long,
Unheard since autumn's by-gone days till now.

Yet he is there; and calling to his mate;
" The cot is all unbuilded for our young";
At early morn, and into evening late,
By each to each from tree to tree is sung; —

" The cot is all unbuilded for our young,
The last year's nest will not our offspring hold;
'Tis time for them a new one was begun,
Where winter's left the relics of the old."

" Bring willow twigs, and sticks from out the grove,
And bring the mire, the wet mire from the stream;
These one by one together shall be wove,
And that shall fill and plaster every seam."

" The soft, soft leaves, and shreds shall line, within,
The cradle of our tender, infant brood;
Come, hasten love! 'tis time that we begin,
For now the fields and air all promise food."

Thus morn and eve he sings his twittering song,
High up upon the slow-leaved locust tree;
And soon their cot new-builded, large and strong,
And safe from harm, upon its top will be.