Or will the robin nest with thee
At Spring’s awakening? The romping brook
Will never chide thee, but ever coax thee on.
And shouldst thou be impaled
Upon a thorny branch, what then?
Try not a flight. Thy sisters call thee.
Could crocus spring from frost,
And wilt thou let the violet shrink and die?
Nay, speed not, for God hath not
A mast for thee provided.