Instead of a shower there was snow.
Then robin quick covered her o'er with his wing,
"Don't leave me, I love you," he cried:
And he kissed her so tenderly, poor little thing,
But the blossom, his loved one, had died.
Red robin still sits in the bright winter's sun,
But a sorrowing robin is he;
No longer he sings that the springtime has come
When the day is as cold as can be.
—Charles A. Myall.