The Deserted Nest

By George Sterling

        A chill is on the air,
And, robbed by grey November of its leaves,
The maple tosses, and the north wind grieves
        Among the branches bare.

        That limb above the street
Holds yet, I see, the trustful robin's nest,
Where once her eggs were warm below her breast
         When Maytide morns were sweet.

        The fledglings long have flown;
The mother bird as well has gone away,
And in the little home where once they lay
        Are snowflakes early sown.

        Do they, the parents two,
Remember now the refuge dear and small —
The dwelling once beloved over all,
        That held the orbs of blue?

        The snow, the wind, the rain
Will make a ruin of the nest ere long.
The spring will come at last with bud and song,
        But they two not again.

        The winter shakes my door,
And bitter winds are on the frozen earth,
And on that home of mating and of birth
        That is a home no more.

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