What was that low drooping on my breast?
Ruffled plumage, tiny pinions weary,
Every flutter seemed a throb of pain;
Ah! the prison-house was not so dreary,
Tired Robin had come home again!
They who deem it cruel thus to hold him
Should have seen the wanderer’s listless eyes
Greet the loving care so quick to fold him
Safe and warm from show’ry April skies.
Never morning now but sees him flitting