T HE robin sings in the rain, and the first leaves fall, 
Withering sun-flowers fling their tarnished gold 
by the wall, 
Hedge-fruits ripen and drop in coppice and lane, 
And I am glad from my heart that the years return not 
again. 
May-flowers fade with the May, and are past and gone, 
Butterflies live their day, and the year goes on: 
Yet the heart that was blithe with the flower and the 
butterfly 
Lingers, and lives, and outlives, while the years go by. 
The end of the tale is best, and the close of the song 
For the heart that has beat too fast, that has beat too 
long; 
And my heart is glad that the years return not again— 
Glad that the first leaves fall and the robin sings in the 
rain. 
