Robin

Now comes the graybeard of the north:
The forests bare their rugged breasts
To every wind that wanders forth,
And, in their arms, the lonely nests
That housed the birdlings months ago
Are egged with flakes of drifted snow.

The north wind doth blow,
And we shall have snow,
And what will the robin do then, poor thing?

He'll sit on a twig,
And we'll feed him some bread,
And he'll sing to say 'Thank you, my friends',
Poor thing!