Sonnet On The Author’s Birthday

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain,
See aged winter amid his surly reign
At thy blythe carol, clears his furrowed brow.
So in lone poverty, dominion drear,
Sits meek content with light, unanxious heart;
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part,
Nor asks if they bring output to hope or fear.
I hand thee, Author of this opening day!
Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies!
Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys
What wealth could never give nor take away.
Yet come, thou child of poverty and care,
the mite high bestowed that mite with thee share.

rObErt bUrNs

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