The Robin

Little brown brother, up in the apple tree,
High on its blossom-rimmed branches aswing,
Here where I listen earth-bound, it seems to me
You are the voice of the spring.

Herald of Hope to the sad and faint-hearted,
Piper the gold of the world cannot pay,
Up from the limbo of things long departed
Memories you bring me to-day.

You are the echo of songs that are over,
You are the promise of songs that will come,
You know the music, oh, light-winged rover,
Sealed in the souls of the dumb.

All of the past that we wearily sigh for,
All of the future for which our hearts long,
All Love would live for, and all Love would die for
Wordless, you weave in a song.

Little brown brother, up in the apple tree,
My spirit answers each note that you sing,
And while I listen - earth-bound - it seems to me
You are the voice of the spring.

Virna Sheard

Virna Sheard was a Canadian poet and novelist associated with the late 19th and early 20th centuries. She gained recognition for her poetry collections such as 'The Miracle, and Other Poems' and 'A Sea of Sunset'. Her work often explored themes of love, spirituality, and the natural world. Apart from poetry, she also wrote several novels that contributed significantly to Canadian literature of her time.

Virna Sheard

At The Play

Virna Sheard, Simple Poetry

The Fairy Clock

Virna Sheard, Simple Poetry

April

Virna Sheard, Simple Poetry

Don Cupid

Virna Sheard, Simple Poetry

English

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Request (To E. M.)

Sing me a song - a song to ease old sorrows,
And dull the edge of care -
A song of Hope to ring through all the morrows
That be my share.

Unlock the doors where joy hath been in hiding,
Though barred they be and strong,
And send black grief far down the wind a-riding -
Sing me a song.

Sing thou thy sky-lark song of sweetest daring,
And April ecstasy,
That I may follow it and go a-faring
To Arcady.

Charm sleep from out the shadows with thy singing,
And when the light turns grey,
Leave me bright dreams until the dawn comes bringing
The rose-edged day.

The wind of March taught thee his springtime madness,
And then in undertone
Whispered the wonder-secret of his gladness
To thee alone.

And thou hast learned from li...

Virna Sheard

April

April! April! April!
With a mist of green on the trees -
And a scent of the warm brown broken earth
On every wandering breeze;
What, though thou be changeful,
Though thy gold turns to grey again,
There's a robin out yonder singing,
Singing in the rain.

April! April! April!
'Tis the Northland hath longed for thee,
She hath gazed toward the South with aching eyes
Full long and patiently.
Come now - tell us, sweeting,
Thou laggard so lovely and late,
Dost know there's no joy like the joy that comes
When hearts have learned to wait?

Virna Sheard

The Crow

Hail, little herald! - Art thou then returning
From summer lands, this wild and wind-torn day?
Hast brought the word for which our hearts are yearning,
That spring is on the way?
Hark! Now there comes a clear, insistent calling,

From hill tops crested with untarnished snow;
The trumpet notes are drifting - floating - falling -
Whene'er the breezes blow!

"Winter is over, and the spring is coming!"
Glad is thy message, little page in black -
"Winter is over, and the spring is coming -
The spring is coming back!"

Tell me, 0 prophet, bird of sombre feather,
Who taught thee all the mysteries of spring? -
Didst note each passing mood of wind and weather,
While flying to the North on buoyant wing?

Or didst thou rest upon the bare brown branche...

Virna Sheard

The Rover

Though I follow a trail to north or south,
Though I travel east or west,
There's a little house on a quiet road
That my hidden heart loves best;
And when my journeys are over and done,
'Tis there I will go to rest.

The snows have bleached it this many a year;
The sun has painted it grey;
The vines hold it close in their clinging arms;
The shadows creep there to stay;
And the wind goes calling through empty rooms
For those who have gone away.

But the roses against the window-pane
Are the roses I used to know;
And the rain on the roof still sings the song
It sang in the long ago,
When I lay me down to sleep in a bed
Little and white and low.

It is long since I bid it all good-bye,
With young light-hearted disdain;
I remember...

Virna Sheard

Lines To A Robin.

Written during a severe Winter.


Why, trembling, silent, wand'rer! why,
From me and Pity do you fly?
Your little heart against your plumes
Beats hard - ah! dreary are these glooms!
Famine has chok'd the note of joy
That charm'd the roving shepherd-boy.
Why, wand'rer, do you look so shy?
And why, when I approach you, fly?
The crumbs which at your feet I strew
Are only meant to nourish you;
They are not thrown with base decoy,
To rob you of one hour of joy.
Come, follow to my silent mill,
That stands beneath yon snow-clad hill;
There will I house your trembling form,
There shall your shiv'ring breast be warm:
And, when your little heart grows strong,
I'll ask you for your simple song;
And, when you will not tarry more,
Open ...

John Carr

A Song

0 heart of mine - if I were but a swallow -
A thing so fearless, swift of flight, and free -
On wings unwearied I would find and follow
Some path that led to thee!

Were I a rose out in the garden growing
My sweetness I would give the vagrant breeze
For he, perchance, might meet thee all unknowing -
Yet bring thee memories.

Virna Sheard