One winter's evening bitter and cold,
Gathered round a fire of burning gold,
Snuggled in blankets warm and furred,
I heard the singing of a bird,
Outside as the whirling snow falled,
All alone the robin called.
He sang a sad and lonely tune,
To no one but the stars and moon,
He sang and sang all through the night,
His voice desperate in fright.
But in the morning,
Quite and still,
I looked out past the windowsill,
The singing had stopped,
The Robin gone.
From every house people stirred,
Then merry laughter could be heard,
They did not know,
They did not hear,
The Robin calling out in fear,
Only I but yet,
I felt a sense of regret.
For though I had heard and understood,
I had done nothing where I could've done good.
