The robin is the one

The robin is the one 

That interrupts the morn

With hurried, few, express reports

When March is scarcely on.

The robin is the one 

That overflows the noon

With her cherubic quantity, 

An April but begun.

The robin is the one 

That speechless from her nest

Submits that home and certainty

And sanctity are best.

I went out to visit my parents today and took the chance to dig through some boxes to find some poetry books that I was into when I was a student. I have a student at the moment who is writing poetry and so I wanted to find the sorts of things I was reading when I was her age. (which the time in my life that I now think of as when I was not a birdwatcher, or sometimes I think of it as the time when I didn't realise I was a bird watcher, as I have some many bird associated memories.)

One of the books was a collection of Emily Dickinson poems and flicking through in on the train home I found this one about a robin, a nice synchronicity with my current project.